


Roommates are for little people

by alexxphoenix42



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cuddling while asleep, Dirty Dancing, Drinking, Drunk Singing, Endearments, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff, Frottage, Hurt/Comfort, Inadvertent drug use, John calls Sherlock "Posh Boy" for reasons, M/M, Mild Angst, Mildly Dubious Consent, Nosy relatives, Pining, Resolved Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Teenlock, UST, Unilock, bad roommates suck, balletlock, bathing together, family wedding, footballer!John, have to share a bed, sherlock is a prick, slight homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2018-04-05
Packaged: 2019-02-25 18:20:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 69,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13218378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexxphoenix42/pseuds/alexxphoenix42
Summary: John was looking forward to seeing his friends back at uni, but a new year brings new complications, not the least of which is a dorm room with only one bed, and a stroppy roommate with an utterly spectacular arse. God, John doesn't need the headache.





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blueink3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueink3/gifts).



> This work is a Sherlock Secret Santa gift for blueink3. When I asked them how they liked their Johnlock served, they did mention "have to share a bed." Since that is just my favorite trope EVER, and I already had an idea kicking around, this unilock bed-sharing fic was hatched.
> 
> I saw this fake news title from The Onion - ["College Roommates Surprised To Find Dorm Room Has One King-Size Bed"](http://www.theonion.com/graphic/college-roommates-surprised-to-find-dorm-room-has--29326) aaaaand a plot bunny was born. Can you blame me?
> 
> I do hope folks, and especially blueink3, like it. I'll be posting chapters pretty quick like over the next couple of days.

 

~@~

 

“So, are you Sherlock Holmes?”

John squinted up at the long, gangly bloke beside him in the dorm lobby. John had a vague recollection of having shared a class with him last term, though he seemed to have swanned off somewhere around mid-terms.

“That’s right,” the too-tall, blue-eyed thing looked imperiously down at him. “Who wants to know?”

“Hey, I’m John Watson. I got a letter - looks like we’ll be rooming together.” John put out a friendly hand.

“You’re a football player,” Sherlock sneered, not bothering to take John’s outstretched palm.

John was fairly-well known around campus. He wasn’t surprised Sherlock knew he was on the team.

“Yeah, right, problem?” John could feel the smile sliding of his face as he dropped his arm.

“I was hoping to room alone. I requested that.”

“Well, we don’t always get what we want, do we?” John's quick temper was already starting to rise.

Posh-looking git. He had on a pretentious long coat, pressed white button-up, and shoes that looked like some kind of Italian leather numbers. John was certain he had a driver outside gathering his hand-tooled trunks from the boot of the family Bentley.

“I’ll have to inform the administration that this simply won’t do.” Sherlock stuck out his lower lip in the beginning of a pout.

It struck John then that the rude man had a gorgeous mouth. Lovely, full lips. God, John couldn’t keep his eyes off that saucy lower lip jutting out just so. He licked his own in unconscious response.

“I require absolute quiet for my studies, not a lot of loud, sweaty athletes underfoot.” Sherlock tossed back a shock of black curls that had tumbled down into his face. The movement reminded John of nothing so much as a skittish thoroughbred.

“Yeah well. I have studies too,” John said. “It’s not like I’ll be holding footie parties in the dorms.”

“I have experiments that will require space and the utmost care, I don’t see how I can possibly be expected to share . . .”

“Hang on. You’re doing experiments in a dorm? That’s what the student labs are for. They have 24 hour access, there’s no excuse for doing something dangerous . . .”

“Oh.” Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John, seeming to properly focus on him for the first time. “You’re pre-med.”

“Yeah, that’s right.” John crossed his arms over his chest.

Sherlock tapped one long, elegant finger against his chin as his intensely pale eyes swept over John, seeming to see straight through him, right down to the atoms. The feeling was electric, like a sudden jolt running over John’s spine.

“You might be of some use after all,” Sherlock drawled.

“Great. Ta, for that.”  John shook himself, trying to shrug off the strange spellbound state that seemed to have fallen over him. It was just another upper-class twit being overly-pretentious. John had dealt with his kind before.

“Look, it’s been a long trip.” John bent to retrieve the large duffle he’d dropped, slinging it over one shoulder, and grabbed the handle of his wheeled suitcase. “If you want to complain about getting a single, go ahead, but I’m going to get settled for now.”

“Hmmm,” Sherlock rumbled. He turned slightly, pulled a phone from his pocket and began typing furiously, thumbs flying over the screen.

 _Ponce._ He probably had the president of the university on speed dial. Sherlock trailed after John as he made his way to the Resident Matron to get his keys. She was a pleasant woman named Mrs. Hudson, who offered them biscuits after fetching the keys. When Sherlock began grilling the woman, asking her about the availability of any other rooms, John sighed and left him to it, moving to the stairs to haul his things up several flights. He knew waiting for the elevator was a complete waste on opening day.

John picked his way around the chaos of the other students moving into their rooms, narrowly missing a skateboard left in the middle of the corridor. He grinned when he spied a face he recognized and stopped to speak to Mike Stamford, a friend and fellow pre-med student. John was glad to find that Mike was on his same hall, just a few doors down from his number, 221. After a few minutes of sharing how their summers had been, Mike asked if John knew who his roommate was.

“God, Mike, some bloke named Sherlock. Honestly, he’s a nightmare. Already nattering on about wanting a single.”

Mike burst out laughing.

“What?”

“Best hope they give him the single, mate. I was next door to him last year. He went through three roommates before they gave up and let him have a double by himself.”

“Great, just what I need.” John rolled his eyes. “A proper nutter.”

“Ah, don’t worry. I’m sure you can request a transfer soon enough.” Mike smiled sympathetically. “Hey, I got a text from Bill. The lads are getting together at the Cross Keys for a bite and a pint at six. Are you coming?”

“Yeah, I should be done by then.” John nodded. “Well, let me go drop all this off before Tall, Dark and Poncy comes back."

“Good luck with that!” Mike laughed again, patting John on the arm as he moved on.

John found his door easily enough a few steps farther down. He fumbled a bit, getting the key in the lock before pushing inside with a sigh. His relief at reaching his room was short lived as he quickly took in the layout of the room. It held the usual, some shelves, two wardrobes, and two desks with chairs on opposite sides of the room, but instead of two single beds tucked in against the walls, one large two-person bed graced the middle of the room.

_Oh, hell, no._

 John dropped his duffel to the floor with a resounding thump. He registered vaguely as someone moved to join him in the room. The disgusted sound that growled out behind his shoulder alerted John to the fact that it was indeed Sherlock.

“Well, this is even more ridiculous,” Sherlock snorted, immediately dialing someone on his phone.

John sank to one of the desk chairs, huffing out a laugh. To think he’d been hoping for a smooth move in . . . a reasonable roommate, something close to the loo, but far enough from the elevator that they wouldn’t get all the noise. This was shaping up to be anything but easy.

Sherlock spelled out the problem quickly enough to whoever he was talking with. Sherlock asked if any other rooms were available, and by the scowl that stretched his elfin face, John figured that was a no. After a few increasingly-angry replies on Sherlock’s end, he rang off.

“Trouble?” John raised his eyebrows.

“This university is run by idiots.” Sherlock dashed a hand through his hair, upsetting his riot of curls even more than they already were. “That was head of residential services. Apparently, this dorm was rented out over the summer to married couples at a retreat. Someone neglected to replace the double bed in this room.”

“And there are no more single beds around?” John asked in a reasonable voice.

“Residential services is of course swamped with requests at the start of term. They say they’ll have a temporary folding bed sent over as soon as they can, and they’ll get us two proper beds by next week.”

“Well, then, I assume that will hold us over until another room becomes available and you can move out.” John offered a weary smile.

“ _I_ will move out? That’s not possible.” Sherlock drew himself haughtily to his tallest height. “This dorm is closest to the student labs, and this room has the optimal afternoon light that I require for my experiments. You should be the one to move out.”

Something in John snapped at that. He had no particular interest in the room one way or the other, but he’d be damned if he’d let some trust-fund knob push him around. He leapt to his feet, puffing out his chest.

“Oh, no, mate. I’m not going to be the poor sod dragging all over campus. I’m FINE with sharing a room. If you want a single, _you_ can be the one to move.”

Although Sherlock stood over John by half a head, he visibly quailed, stepping back slightly. “I can make it very uncomfortable for you to stay here.” He narrowed his eyes.

John crossed his arms and scowled deeper. “Yeah? Well at the moment neither of us has anywhere to go, so I suggest you grow up and deal with it.”

“Fine. We’ll sort this out later. I need to see to my bags,” the tall git sneered before whirling out the door.

 

~@~

 

John staggered back to his dorm, an arm flung around Mike as they wobbled up the stairs. Someone had started a drinking game at the pub, and never one to shy away from a challenge, John had knocked back a few more beers than he’d intended. Mike was a bit pissed as well, and the both of them giggled uproariously as it took them three tries to get the door to the corridor open.

“Good luck with your roomie!” Mike whispered a bit too loudly near John’s ear.

“Ohmigod, almos’ forgot ‘bout ‘im.” John hiccupped. Indeed all thoughts of his earlier run-in with the tall, dark, posh thing had fled his mind over fish, chips and too much cheap lager.

“You can sleep on m’ floor if you want,” Mike offered.

“Naw, got m’ own bed,” John reassured his friend, patting him on the shoulder.

“Okay. G’nite.” Mike waved as he made it into to his room.

John continued to the end of the corridor, and fumbling out his key, managed to get the door open. He flicked on the light switch, the florescent lamp overhead flooding the room with an unforgiving light.

“Christ.” John squinted, letting the door fall shut behind him.

A veritable tower of trunks and suitcases had been shoved to one side of the room, and the double bed neatly made up with fresh linens and a soft looking duvet. Sadly, the room was still missing the spare bed the college had promised to send over, but thankfully it also lacked John’s tall, annoying roommate. Without much more thought, John killed the lights, and staggered to the bed to collapse face first into it. He sighed, the duvet WAS as comfortable as it looked. He managed to tug it over himself before falling fast asleep.

 A sore head and a dry mouth roused John the next morning. He smacked his lips and pulled the covers higher, trying to grab a few more moments of sleep. He felt a surprisingly comfortable heat source next to him, and he burrowed closer to it instinctually.  It smelled good and warm, soft. He let himself snuggle in.

“UGH, Neaderthal! Unhand me!”

John’s full consciousness poured in. His horrid roommate had obviously joined him in the bed last night as John now found himself plastered along his backside, an arm thrown tightly around his middle. The man glared frostily over his shoulder, but his wild head of curls sticking every way somewhat ruined his posh arsehole act.

“Oh, God. Sorry.” John blinked, pushing himself sadly away from the comfortable warmth. “What are you doing here?”

“I live here.”

“You weren’t here last night,” John said as if this explained anything. He sat up, rolling his shoulders, and head, trying to get a crick out of his neck.

“Erm . . .” Sherlock pushed up to sitting as well, staring at him, inspecting John as though he were some lower life form that had oozed in under the door.

“You must have come in at arse o’clock in the morning.” John ran a hand back through his hair, smoothing it down. It must look a fright he thought.

“I had an experiment that kept me later than I expected.” Sherlock eyed John warily as he scooted as far back on the mattress as he could go without tumbling off.

“Huh, okay.” John crawled off the bed to stand, scratching at his belly as he moved toward the dresser where he’d stowed his things. He opened the top drawer and was shocked to find nothing but neatly rolled socks in varying colors from grey to black now within.

“Hey, where’s my stuff?” John whirled back on the fluffy-haired git peering at him over the edge of the duvet he’d drawn almost to his nose.

“I put it back in your bags. I assumed you’d be moving, and I needed the space.” Sherlock sat upright, lifting his chin.

Ah, there’s the posh arsehole again, John thought.

“No. Nope. Not acceptable.” John scooped out the socks and dumped them on the bed ignoring Sherlock’s squawks. He did the same with the other drawers until they were empty again, and a veritable mountain of poncy socks, pants and shirts lay heaped over the duvet.

“This dresser, and this wardrobe are mine.” John’s voice rose as he jerked a thumb toward the furniture on his side of the room. “Those are yours.” He tipped his chin to the others. “Got it?”

“Fine. I’ll find another room to move into.” Sherlock looked even more nervous.

John pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling some of the fight leach out of him. He was tired of being looked at like he was pond scum or the menacing, bad guy in some action film.

“Look, stay or go, but if you stay, it’s only fair we split the room evenly.”

 “Yes, alright.”  Sherlock shuffled back to sit against the headboard, but kept the duvet pulled well up to his neck. It was almost cute.

John sighed and found his bags on the floor stuffed willy nilly with his clothes. He grabbed them, doing a very rudimentary sorting to refill the drawers.  

 “I’m off for a shower. I’ve an early class,” John declared, yanking out a towel and his bath kit before stalking off to the loo.

If Sherlock replied with anything, John didn’t catch it. When he returned, well scrubbed with a towel about his waist, the man was gone. John dressed in blessed peace, packed his rucksack for the day, and headed out.

 

~@~

 

 “John. JOHN! Saved you a seat!” A hand waved above the crowd as John entered the lecture hall.

John found his way to the speaker, happy to see an old friend, Irene Adler, grinning up at him. A few other familiar faces, Mike Stamford, and Molly Hooper, greeted him as well.

 “Hey guys, thanks, this is a zoo!” John slid gratefully into the seat that Irene had kept occupied between herself and Molly with her bag and a fuzzy, black jumper.  

“Don’t you know it.” Irene grimaced, taking a sip from her take-away coffee. “It’s too early in the morning for crowds _or_ organic chemistry.”

“Oh, I don’t know, I quite like organic chemistry,” Molly chirped.

“You might be the only one.” Mike laughed.

John glanced around the room. These required science classes always started out full to the brim, but thinned significantly as the year went on. The burble of chatter stilled as the professor stalked out to begin the lecture. John dutifully opened his notebook.

“Hey John, see you at dinner tonight?” Molly asked at the end of class as they packed to go. 

A number of the pre-med students often met up for dinner at the dining hall nearest the science building.

“Naw, sorry. Got practice with the footballers tonight,” John demurred, bending over to fill his bag.

Sometimes John cursed his packed schedule. He was the only pre-med he knew on the team. Most of the other players had gone for much simpler majors, but it was John’s dream to become a doctor, and without the football scholarship that had gotten him into uni in the first place, he wouldn’t even be there.

“Alright.” Irene swatted him on the rump as she passed. “Try not to hurt yourself with all the bruisers.”

“Yeah, okay.” John smiled. “Catch you lot later.”

Irene was as gay as the day was long and constantly trying to get John to come with her to the Gay Student Alliance, but John could never find the free time. Irene had moaned in the pub one night about her parents being less than thrilled when she’d announced her orientation, and John had admitted that he couldn’t even come out to his homophobic father. They’d been queer comrades-in-arms ever since.

As John glanced up from cramming his books into his bag, he thought he caught a flurry of dark curls, and a swirl of long coat heading out the door, but it was too quick for him to take better note.

It was after dark by the time John returned to the dorm room. He was annoyed to see that the folding bed that Residential Services had promised still hadn’t made an appearance. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen either, and John spent a few quiet minutes on his laptop wondering if he might show before packing it in for bed. There was nothing for it. John changed into pyjama bottoms and an old tee, flipping back the duvet, to settle in for sleep, being careful to stay as close to the edge as possible.

 

~@~

 

John woke the next morning alone, feeling slightly disappointed. He’d half expected Sherlock to make another dramatic appearance in the middle of the night. Still, John had a busy schedule and little time to puzzle the mystery of his odd roommate. Coach had them running laps and doing a grueling regime of calisthenics every afternoon to get them back into shape after “slacking off all summer” as he put it. On top of a full course load, footie practice had him dragging back to the dorms utterly knackered. John fell asleep again alone that night, waking to a quiet room for a second morning.

He might have supposed that Sherlock had moved out and left him the room alone if he hadn’t seen his things still about the room, and his poncy coat left handing over a partially open wardrobe door. John kept his eyes out for Sherlock during the day around campus. He was gratified when he did spy Sherlock in the back of his chemistry class, but the git came late and left early, and John wasn’t able to reach him before he’d swept back out the door. John called Residential Services about the folding bed in case Sherlock had decided to kip with a friend until they had the bed situation resolved, but he kept being shuffled to voice mail, and after leaving two different messages, he gave up.

Finally on day three of “the missing roommate,” John happened upon Sherlock in the cafeteria in the Student Center. He was tucked away at a small table studying his laptop, a cup of tea at his elbow.

“Sherlock.” John stood breathlessly over him, holding a tray with a sandwich, an apple and a can of cola.

“Oh, it’s you.” Piercing blue eyes lifted to regard him coolly.

“I haven’t seen you at the room . . . it’s been a few days . . .”

“Is there a problem?” Sherlock arched an eyebrow.

“Yeah, no.” John dropped into the chair opposite the man without being asked. “Look, I didn’t mean to chase you out of the room or anything. If you’ve been kipping on a mate’s floor, I don’t want to make things hard for you.”

“I haven’t been sleeping on anyone’s floor. How gauche.” Sherlock drew himself slightly taller. “I require very little sleep as it stands. A nap here or there during the day is all I truly require.”

“What, you’ve been sleeping in the room during the day?”

“You aren’t using it the bed, then. What does it matter?” Sherlock looked confused.

“Well, don’t you have classes? Lab time?”

“Hardly of consequence.” Sherlock snorted. “If work is turned in at the middle and end of term, daily work is of marginal importance.”

“So you’re skipping all your classes to sleep?” John frowned.

“I can’t see how my schedule is any of your business.” The man’s full upper lip lifted into an ugly sneer.

“No, you’re right, it’s not.” John could feel his temper rising. “Look, forgive me for trying. I’m just saying, if you wanted to share . . .” John leaned in, dropping his voice, “ . . . the bed at night, I’m fine with it. It’s okay.”

“I see. So you can paw me in my sleep?”

“What? No, of course not.” John sat back. “I’m sure we can keep to our own sides . . .  there’s no reason not to be grown-ups about this.”

“Hmmm.” The man’s strange pale eyes continued to regard him as though he were a specimen under a microscope. John found it unnerving.

John shook his head, trying to clear it. “Anyway, they’ll probably have the bed situation sorted in a couple of days, get two twins back in there.”

“No doubt. So, is there anything else you needed?” The man’s sharp, clear vowels could have cut glass.

“Nope. That was it.” John felt his face heating. He stood, grabbing his tray. “Laterz, mate.”

John stomped off, feeling extremely wrong footed. He scanned the room looking for someone who might actually enjoy his presence, when he spotted a couple of blokes from the football team. They cheered loudly, beckoning John in as soon as they saw him. Someone pulled up a spare chair, and John sank into it with some relief. He couldn’t help glancing up later though to where Sherlock had been sitting, but the quixotic man had disappeared again.

When John got back to the dorm that night, things were still as he’d left them, one large double bed still hulking in the middle of the room, and no stroppy roommate around. John readied himself for bed, about to turn in when a knock sounded at the door.

John’s first thought was that Sherlock might have lost his key. He leapt across the room to answer it, and was somewhat disappointed to find the round face of Mike Stamford in the hallway.

“Oh, Mike. Hi.”

“Hey sorry to bother you, mate. I wondered if you had a pencil sharpener I could borrow? Mine’s gone completely missing.”

“Oh, yeah, sure.” John tried to shut the door, leave Mike in the hall while he retrieved it, but of course Mike bustled in cheerfully after him.

“God, John, what the hell?” Mike gestured toward the double bed, mouth open.

“Yeah, I know, it’s a crap situation. They screwed up, left a bed from when they rented out the dorms over the summer.” John sighed. “We keep calling about it, and getting a run around. They’re really busy with start of term.”

“You’re _sharing a bed_ with Sherlock Holmes?” An incredulous smile had worked its way across Mike’s face.

“Well, no, not really. We seem to be splitting it. I get it during the night, and he sneaks in and kips during the day.” John put his hands on his hips, lifted his chin, daring Mike to go any further with his questioning.

“Well, I don’t envy you at all.” Mike shook his head. “Still, my floor’s always open if you need an escape.”

“Thanks, mate. I’ll keep it in mind.”

John fetched Mike the sharpener, and showed him out the door, asking him not to spread the bed situation around with everyone. It was bad enough without having to endure any ribbing about the whole thing.

“Yeah, course, John. No worries.” Mike pantomimed locking his lips with a key as he moved into the hall.

“Thanks Mike, good night.” John shut the door behind him.

~@~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am going to have make some mea culpas here - being American, I am not familiar with the British university system. I read that student doctors in the UK don't really do a "pre-med" program, going straight into medical studies right after secondary education. I'm gonna have to fall back on what I know for this story, so sorry to any Brits if anything is weird here!


	2. Two

~@~

 

John swam slowly up to consciousness, feeling warm and relaxed. He reveled in the hazy snippets of a lovely dream, floating in a silky pool of water, throaty giggles, and a jumble of unseen men and women sliding their fingers over his bare skin. It faded as he blinked his eyes open to the thin morning light filling his dorm room.

His alarm bleeped somewhere rudely nearby. John moved to shut it off when he realized he couldn’t move with the dead weight pressing him into the mattress. He glanced down to an inky riot of curls spread against his chest. _Sherlock_. His mad roommate had obviously materialized to cozy up like a friendly cephalopod sometime in the night. Sherlock’s whole body curled tightly around him while his own arm lay slung over his shoulders. John got a whiff off his hair, and inhaled deeply, visions of tropical beaches suddenly dancing through his mind's eye. John could feel the slow rise and fall of Sherlock’s chest, and if he concentrated, the gentle thump of his heart. He tightened his hold around Sherlock slightly, and the man sighed, snuffling into his chest.  John felt a wave of something very tender sweep over him. Still, he needed to reach the alarm.

“Hey, hey.” John nudged the bundle of gently snoring man.

Sherlock’s knee had insinuated itself between John’s thighs, and John’s morning wood was in danger of making its presence very well known if Sherlock shifted just an inch or two higher.

“Oi, you, budge over! I need to get up!” John pushed his shoulder more firmly.

The alarm raised in volume as it wasn’t responded to, and Sherlock’s head jolted upright with a gasp.

“Oh, hello.” Sherlock's cheeks pinked up rather charmingly when he realized where he was.

“Erm . . . my alarm . . .” John nodded toward the shrill noise.

Sherlock scooted back as if burnt, and John struggled upright to silence the clock on the bedside table. He sat on the edge of the bed, looking back at his roommate tangled up in the duvet. He looked so painfully embarrassed, John had to say something to clear the air.

“So, erm, they didn’t bring the other bed yet.” John rubbed the back of his neck.

“No, I called again yesterday, but there was a water pipe that burst in one of the girls’ dorms.” Sherlock sat up almost primly, tucking the duvet more firmly around himself even though he was still fully dressed in a shirt and trousers. His madly-tousled curls looked as if he’d stuck his finger into an electrical socket though. “Residential Services informed me they’ve been overwhelmed with the crisis.”

He looked so ridiculous John had to smile.

“Ah well, no worries. I’m sure they’ll get around to it.”

“I’m sorry . . . I don’t generally share a bed with anyone. I tend to . . .” Sherlock tossed a long, elegant hand into the air  “. . . sprawl.”

“Yeah, no worries. I have to share a bed when the football team travels. It happens.” John shrugged. “It’s fine.”

 In point of fact, John had never _actually_ woken up wrapped around a teammate, but he was struggling to put the oddly vulnerable-looking man at ease.

“Ah, good.” Sherlock frowned, an adorable crease forming above his patrician nose.

“Well, I’m off. Busy day.” John smiled again, and bounced upright, intent on making the morning as normal as possible.

“Yes, myself as well,” Sherlock said.

When John returned from using the bathroom, his roommate had vanished again, leaving the covers in a tangle. John felt it was only considerate of him to make the bed, and he tugged everything back into place before hurrying off for a quick bite and his first class of the morning.

John found his seat in chemistry with his friends. He eyed Mike, hoping he hadn’t let anything slip about the naff double bed, but everything seemed business as usual with yawning, and the pulling out of notebooks, and laptops.

“Did anyone else get really hungry after reading that chapter?" Mike glanced around. "All those molecules looked just like stacks of Smarties.” 

“Mike, you’re always hungry,” Irene said.

“Ooh, speaking of which.” Molly pulled a packet of chocolates out of her handbag. “My mum sent me these, anyone want one?”

Everyone did, and as they passed the bag around, John couldn’t help craning his neck around, searching the crowd for a head of dark curls, but Sherlock was nowhere to be found. He looked again at the end of class as they were leaving, his eyes skimming over the other students almost automatically, but his roommate seemed to have well and truly skived off class that day.

John didn’t have footie practice that night, and was pleased to catch up with his friends again at dinner in the cafeteria by the science hall. He spotted Bill Murray’s ginger head, and moved to join him and the others.

 “How’s everyone?” John smiled as he found an open seat, sliding his tray onto the table.

“Trying to get Irene a girlfriend.” Molly confided. “We’re checking out everyone in the dining hall.”

“I’m tired of being single,” Irene complained.

“What, things fell through with Bianca?”  John frowned.

“John, GOD, that was months ago. We broke up over the summer.”

“Oh, sorry.”

“She’s pretty.” Molly nodded toward a woman with her hair up in a messy bun at the salad bar.

“Oh I know her, she’s called Hannah. She’s in my English class,” Bill said. “Want me to introduce you?”

“She’s dating someone.” Mike cut in. “His name is Charles.”

“Damn.” Irene glumly spooned up enchilada casserole from her plate.

“Wow, that one’s gorgeous!” Mike nodded toward a young woman with long blonde hair, and a pink jumper.

“That woman is a goddess,” Irene said, “But I’m pretty sure she’s not playing for my team.”

“How do you get gaydar?” Mike frowned. “I never know.”

“Practice.” Irene shrugged. “You get a sense. It’s not perfect, I’ll grant you.”

“I’d go talk to her, I’m not dating anyone,” Mike said. “but I think she’s out of my league.”

“NONE of us are dating anyone.” John rolled his eyes. “We’re all too busy.”

“And you’ve got double the dating pool.” Irene snorted. “You’d think out of any of us, you’d have the best chance of finding someone.”

“Yeah, let’s hook John up.” Mischief danced in Bill’s eyes. “We can live vicariously.”

“Absolutely not, I’m the busiest of everyone!” John said. “I’ve got _literally_ no free time . . .”

“Ooh, how about that one?” Irene pointed to someone by the drinks machine. “He’s absolutely Byronic.”

John glanced over to find a familiar tall, pale man with dark curly hair dressed all in black helping himself to a coffee.

“PERFECT, let’s go introduce . . .” Bill started.

“Oh, that’s Sherlock.” Molly pinked over her ears. “I know him from the labs.”

“ _You_ don’t fancy him, do you?” Irene rounded on her.

“No, no of course not.” Molly blushed harder. “Besides, I think he’s definitely not playing for my team. He’d be perfect for John though.”

“He’s John’s roommate.” Mike smiled smugly.

“WHAAAAT?” Three people cried in tandem as all eyes swung John’s way.  It was John’s turn to colour up.

“John, you’re holding out on us, mate!” Bill laughed.

 “Erm, yeah, right. He is my roommate.” John tried to shrug nonchalantly. “I never see him though. He’s never there.”

“Oh my God.” Irene leaned in. “This is perfect.”

“No, it is not perfect.” John shook his head. “I’m not interested in dating anyone. And certainly not . . . my roommate. God, Irene, stop it.”

“Alright, fine. Don’t get your knickers in a twist.” Irene sat back.

The meal continued, but all eyes seemed to be drifting now to the man seated by himself several tables away, picking at a roll as he scrolled through his phone.

“John, the least you can do is invite him over.” Irene reached out to shake John’s arm.

“Oh, Irene, he’s not . . . social.” John shrugged her off.

“John’s right. He doesn’t like it when you bother him.” Molly nodded. “He’s a solitary sort.”

“Oh, rubbish. I’ll go talk to him, then!” Irene said, pushing her tray back to stand.

As if realizing his imminent fate, Sherlock popped to his feet and moved swiftly to deposit his dirty dishes on the conveyor belt by the wall. In a stride or two, he was sweeping out of the dining room completely.

“Bit of a flair for the dramatic, our boy, hmm?” Irene smiled.

“Yeah, he’s a bit of a prick, actually,” John said around a mouthful of potato.

They continued eating, talk drifting to slagging off the teachers they didn’t like. John glanced at Mike, a small ball of dread weighing down his stomach as he waited for the bloke to mention something about his crazy sleeping arrangement. Thankfully Bill and Mike were busy debating whether Professor Caldwell had multiple pairs of tan chinos, or just wore the same ones every day, and thoughts of John and his tetchy roommate had passed on.

Later, when John returned to his dorm, he was horrified at the pounding sound that greeted him on his floor. Of course the noise only grew louder as he approached his room. He unlocked the door and stepped reluctantly into the wall of noise. Sherlock, for once, was at his desk, calmly reading something on his laptop as the eerie screeching sound that might charitably be called music rolled out of the speakers beside him.

“HEY!” John dropped his bag to the floor.

Sherlock, not surprisingly, failed to hear him.

“SHERLOCK, WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?” John moved to touched his roommate’s shoulder.

Sherlock glared up at him, his eyes slits of pale granite.

“WHAT ARE YOU LISTENING TO?”

“. . . Kilimanjaro Darkjazz Ensemble,” Sherlock might have said as John tried to read his lips.

“WHY IS IT SO LOUD?”

“I need it loud, it helps me think.” Sherlock shrugged.

“YOU CAN’T USE HEADPHONES?” John gestured to his own ears.

“No, I need the acoustics in the room to get the full . . .”

“Can you at least TURN IT DOWN?” John pleaded.

With a huff, Sherlock hit a few buttons, and the sound level dropped, but the discordant noise continued to fill the room. With a sigh, John grabbed his laptop. He tried sitting at his own desk, but the weird music sent goose bumps shivering down his neck. After a minute, he snapped his computer closed, and headed down the hall to Mike’s room. Thankfully his friend was home, and he ushered John cheerfully inside. His roommate, Nigel, was on his bed with a textbook, headphones plugged firmly into his ears. He nodded toward John once, then went back to his reading.

“Sherlock’s being impossible,” John said, sitting on the end of Mike’s bed. “Can you hear that rubbish?” John tipped his head toward the hall.

“Hard to miss it.” Mike sank into his desk chair. The music was muffled with several doors and the corridor between them, but it still throbbed ominously in the background. “You can see why he can’t keep a roommate.”

“I’m not leaving.” John crossed his arms. “He’ll have to be the one to go. I’ll be damned if I let him win.”

“Well, good luck with that,” Mike said, raising his eyebrows. “Last bloke only lasted a week.”

“Nope. I’m not giving him the satisfaction. I’ve made up my mind.”

“Good on you, mate.” Mike laughed. “This’ll be fun to watch if nothing else - unstoppable force meet immovable object.”

John snorted a rude noise.

“Hey, fancy a game of snap?” Mike pulled a pack of cards from a drawer.

“Yeah, why not? Go on then.”

They enjoyed a game, ignoring the surging beat through walls until they heard a loud banging in the corridor followed by a number of angry voices, and then blessedly, silence.

“Oh, good. Looks like the dorm’s going to murder Sherlock after all,” John said. “Saves me having to get rid of him.”

“Thank God for small mercies,” Mike chuckled.

“Well, thanks for the quiet . . . er quieter space.” John yawned, glancing at his watch. “It’s late though. Now that things have settled, I think I’m off to bed.”

“Offer is still open.” Mike gestured to the floor as he gathered up the cards. “I’ve got a sleeping bag if you want to kip here, Nigel doesn’t mind.”

“Naw, it’s fine, mate.” Nigel who had risen to poke through his wardrobe stuck his head back out. “Anything’s better than staying with that madman.”

“No, I’m alright. Need to get back. Point of honour, don’t you know.”

“Okay, night, John.” Mike waved him off.

John opened his door, unsure of what he’d find. Sherlock was sitting at his desk with big, over-the-ear headphones squashed into his curls. Most likely he was still listening to the eerie music, but at least it was playing privately now. John didn’t bother with saying hello, and the two ignored each other as John grabbed things for the loo.

John headed off to brush his teeth and have a quick wash, returning in pyjama bottoms and an old tee. Sherlock remained at his desk, slumped down a bit further in his chair. Though he still didn’t acknowledge him, John noticed Sherlock’s eyes flicking his way when he thought John wasn't looking.  John cheerfully whistled snippets of an Ed Sheeran song as he stowed his things, and got ready to sleep. Sherlock made no move to leave his desk. Eventually John switched out the overhead lights. Sherlock’s desk lamp and computer continued to glow, a bright island of light in the room.

John sighed, and got into bed on “his” side, pulled the covers up over his head and tried to go to sleep. Sherlock continued clicking away at his keys, his lamp light burning its way through the duvet straight through to John’s eyelids. John rolled onto his side, and pulled his pillow over his face. It was no use. He just couldn’t sleep.  John sat up and bunged his pillow across the room. It hit his target beautifully, smacking loudly against the back of Sherlock’s head.

“Ow!” Sherlock turned, a frown scrunching up the bridge of his nose. He pulled the headphones off his ears. “What do you think . .”

“Hey, if you’re going to stay up all night, can you go at least go use the lounge? Some of us have class in the morning.”

“I don’t want to go to the lounge. There are _people_ there.”

“Well, there are people here too, and they’re trying to sleep, you big git. It’s past midnight.”

“Irrelevant.” Sherlock lifted a shoulder carelessly.

“Irrelevant?” John was out of the bed, looming over Sherlock before he knew what he was doing. “I’ll give you irrelevant.” He snatched up Sherlock’s laptop and slammed it closed.

“No, wait . . .” real fear skittered over Sherlock’s eyes as John stepped out of his reach with the device. “Please, don’t break . . .”

“What?” John stopped, looking at the computer in his hand, headphones swinging from the attached cord. “God, I’m not going to break anything.” John blew out a breath. “I just need you to either turn this off, or use it somewhere else. I’m serious. Midnight is lights out. Everyone knows that.”

“I don’t know that.” A sulky pout worked its way into Sherlock’s expression.

“Well, I’m telling you now. It’s your choice.”

“Fine, I’ll turn the lights out.”

“Good.” John handed him his laptop.

John retrieved his pillow, and got back into bed as Sherlock clicked off his desk lamp. John settled down, steeling himself for the other side of the mattress to shift. He told himself it didn’t matter, it wasn’t that big of a deal. It was a bit of a let down though when it never came. John pushed back up to sitting. By the scant glow of Sherlock’s phone, he could just make out the elfin features of his roommate as he perched at his desk chair, turned around so the light didn’t shine on the bed as he read the screen.

“I trust this light isn’t enough to bother you?” A sneer lifted the corner of his lips.

“No, fine. It’s okay.” John huffed, tired of fighting. He rolled over to finally find his way to sleep in the near dark.

 

~@~

 

John woke to the bleep of his alarm and a wash of daylight. He was alone in the bed, but a quick look around the room revealed his stubborn roommate slumped over his desk, now quite asleep.

“Prat.” John shook his head.

He swatted the alarm to silence, and climbed out of bed, stretching his back as he regarded the man. Sherlock’s head was turned to the side, one cheek pillowed up against an arm flung over the desk. His face looked so unguarded in his sleep. John snorted a laugh. He looked like a little boy who’d refused a nap only to fall asleep where he played. John was certain the position wasn’t doing his neck any favours.

“Hey, Sunshine, wake up.” John tapped his shoulder.

“What . . .” Sherlock started awake, eyes fluttering open to reveal bright sapphires peering up at John. He righted himself, curls smushed flat along one side, and a crease along his cheek where he’d leant against a notebook. He looked charmingly rumpled.

“Yeah, you’re going to give yourself a permanent crick sleeping like that.”

“I don’t see where that’s any of your concern.” Sherlock blinked owlishly at him.

“Okay. Don’t mind me, just trying to save your spine.” John grabbed his things and stomped off to the loo.

Sherlock slunk into the bathroom while John was running his electric razor over his face.  Through the mirror, John watched the fluffy-headed man shuffling into one of the stalls. John tried hard not to listen to him having a piss. The toilet flushed and Sherlock re-emerged, moving toward the showers. It was early still and only one other bloke was in the room brushing his teeth.

Sherlock stripped efficiently, dropping his shirt, trousers and pants on the floor before leaning in to a shower to flip on the taps. God, he was a long drink of water. A pale expanse of long, lithe back slid down to two sweet dimples above the man’s  . . . _fuck_ . . . lusciously- rounded arse . . . and his . . . _God_ . . . looong legs.

John forcibly ripped his eyes away when he realized he was staring open-mouthed. He quickly moved the razor away from the one patch on his chin where he’d apparently been shaving for the last two minutes. Sherlock stepped into the shower cubicle, reaching up to pull the curtain closed,  the curtain rings dragging along the rod. John couldn’t help glancing up a last time. His eyes met Sherlock’s piercing gaze briefly in the mirror before the curtain fell between them.

_Shit, he was in trouble._

John hurried back to the room, getting dressed, and out the door in record time. He had a history class on Tuesdays and Thursday mornings with a couple of fellow footballers that thankfully wasn’t overly taxing. He propped himself up, chin on hand, dutifully watching the photos on the front screen, but his mind kept providing its own images.

“Here we see a typical hillfort, located to exploit a rise in elevation for defense. . . .” the teacher pointed toward the image.

_. . . just the stretch of Sherlock’s out-flung arm . . . an arc of bicep merging into long, sinuous lines of muscle and bone, flowing down to the sharp jut of his wrist, and those hands. God, those beautiful hands. They were works of art all on their own . . ._

 . . . generally dating from the late Bronze and early Iron Age, though some were used in the post-Roman period as well. The fortification usually follows the contours of a hill, consisting of one or more lines  . . .

_Oh, the elongated line of his back, that exquisite parabola of pale skin dotted with just a few freckles. It curved so beautifully, dipping in at the base of his spine just before rounding up to the slope of his gorgeous. . ._

 . . . estimated  3,300 structures that can be classed as hillforts or similar “defended enclosures” found within Britain.  Most of these are clustered in the south and south-west . . .

_Christ, he could be a model with that long, rangy form, a fucking fashion model. And here he was reading chemistry, sharing John’s dorm room . . ._

The teacher flipped the image on the screen to a new picture.

“ . . . Maiden Castle, an Iron Age hillfort in Dorset. The name might be a modern one, meaning the fort looks impregnable, or it could derive from the British Celtic  _mai-dun,_  meaning a ‘great hill.’”

John hadn’t meant to look when Sherlock turned around. You learned how to keep your eyes above the waist in the locker room, trained your gaze not to linger once you realized you liked boys too. He couldn’t help it though. His eyes had dropped down with a will of their own . . .

“The earliest evidence of human activity in the area include a Neolithic causeway . .”

_Even soft, his cock was a lovely thing. Long and lean and pale like the rest of him, nestled in its thatch of dark curls, and bracketed by such an expanse of thigh. Christ, those legs went on for days. John ached to reach out and touch, smooth his hand down the side of the man’s flank, grab a handful of that plump arse . . ._

“John, hey Johnny?”

John startled out of his daydream to find the lecture finished, and Rory from the football team standing over him.

“Oi, the lads and I are gonna grab a coffee. Are ya comin?” He jerked his head toward the door.

“Ah, no, thanks, mate.” John cleared his throat, subtly slipping his notebook over his lap. “Got a few things to do.”

“Yeah, alright. Catch you later then!”

“Later.” John nodded at the three boys who filed out of the room with the rest of the class.

_Christ, he needed to get a grip._

~@~

After afternoon classes, football practice and a quick dinner, John headed to the library. He ran into Irene hanging a flier on the corkboard in the library lobby.

“Hmm, _Queer Meet & Greet_.” John read the pink sheet of paper she was pinning to the wall over her shoulder.  “I dunno, sounds a bit dodgy to me.”

“John, how are you, luv?” Irene whirled about with a smile.

“Oh, a bit tired, alright I suppose.”

“Poor thing. You do look a bit peaky,” Irene agreed. “Here, this is just the thing.” She pulled another pink page out of her bag and thrust it at John.

“Oh, Irene, I don’t know. I’m so busy. . .”

“Rubbish. You need an social outing that doesn’t include footballers. I won’t take no for an answer. It’s only a hour or so at the Student Center lounge next Friday.”

“Alright, alright. I’ll try to make it.” John blew out a breath.

“Bring your dishy roommate too.”

“Irene. I don’t even know if he’s  . . . into all that.” John waved a hand.

“Of course he’s _gay_. Look at the product in his hair.” Irene narrowed her eyes. “Oooh, HE’S not the one keeping you from sleeping is he?”

“Oh God, Irene, stop.” John felt an uncomfortable flutter in his throat. “Well, truth be told he is a shit roommate. Playing weird music at top volume. Stays up all night and won’t turn out the light. Honestly, he’s a bit of a nightmare.”

“Hmm. He does sound a fright.” Irene tapped her bottom lip lightly. “Still, we need bodies to make it festive. Invite him, and put a few more fliers up at your dorm, will you?”

“Yeah, okay.” John took the stack of extra papers that Irene pushed into his hands.

“Gotta run, babe, thanks.” Irene dropped a kiss to John’s cheek on her way out.

 

~@~

 

It was late when John finally trudged back to his dorm. He’d lingered at the library, tucked away at his favorite table by the window until the view had turned to dark, and all he could see was his own reflection. Thankfully no ear-splitting music greeted him as he pushed into his corridor. As he reached his door though, the smell of something burning assaulted his nose.

“Sherlock?” John banged on the door, trying the knob. He fumbled out his key, unlocking the door as quickly as he could. A cloud of noxious smoke rolled out to envelope him as he stepped inside.

John staggered through the fug, coughing to find Sherlock in a pair of goggles and a breathing mask bent over a beaker on John's desk. It was set over a lit Bunsen burner and producing a roil of black smoke. John moved quickly to throw open the room’s window, letting in a welcome gust of fresh air.

“What are you doing? This is a sensitive experiment . . .” Sherlock sputtered with some indignation as John returned to reach around him, and turn off the flame.

“What the HELL is this?” John roared, grabbing a stray sock off the floor to shield his nose and mouth from the remaining foul smog that hung across the room.

“I was attempting to discover the melting point of several artificial fibres. If you hadn’t interrupted me, I  . . .”

“Bloody hell!” John gritted out through clenched teeth. “I can’t believe you were doing this in a DORM room? What aren’t you using a lab, and why are you at MY desk?”

“Well, clearly my computer was taking up my desk, and Professor Hardings told me I couldn’t do any more procedures at the labs that required extensive clean-up . . .”

“Nope. No. You are not to do any dangerous procedures in MY room, nor are you to use MY desk to do it.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way.” Somehow Sherlock managed to look haughty with a pair of googles mashing his curls down on each side of his head. “I thought you were also a man of science, and could see the importance . . .”

“If you do it again, I’m reporting you for creating a fire hazard.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.” John’s voice had gone quite calm.

"I see." Sherlock wilted visibly under John’s glare, curling in on himself.

“Look, this room isn’t habitable, and I’m knackered. I’m going to sleep at a friend’s, and when I get back tomorrow, I want this place properly cleaned and aired.”

“Yes, alright, fine,” Sherlock mumbled.

John set about grabbing what he needed, and banged out the door without another word. He shifted his armload to knock on Mike’s door.

“John, hullo.” Mike answered the door. “God, what is that smell.” He wrinkled his nose, stepping back a pace.

“Sherlock,” John said simply. “Can I borrow that sleeping bag?”

“Yeah, of course, come on in.” Mike smiled wryly, holding the door wider for him.

 

~@~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the music I envisioned Sherlock listening to in the dorms. It seems suitably intellectual, off-beat, and eerie. I think he'd love it . . . The Killamanjaro Darkjazz Ensemble - [ Here Be Dragons.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AyORieDhpkg)


	3. Three

~@~

 

John headed off with Mike to organic chemistry in the morning. He sniffed the corridor tentatively as they passed 221. Thankfully the horrible smells seems to have dissipated, but he passed his room without opening the door . . . later. He’d deal with it all later.

“God, I think this class is going to break my brain!" Mike moaned as they took their seats in the lecture hall.

“It is a bit tough already, isn’t it” Molly dropped down beside them, sliding her bag off her shoulder. “Irene and I were talking about forming a study group.”

“That’s right. I’ll see if I can get a study room reserved at the library.” Irene took her seat, balancing an extra-large take-away cup on top of her laptop. “Who’s in?”

 “Yeah, I’ll come. God, this stuff is mad,” Mike said.

John glanced around the room. He told himself he wasn’t actually looking for a mad scientist with a head of dark, fly-away curls in the room. Still, he was disappointed when he failed to spot the man. Damn.

“John, care to join the doomed?” Mike nudged his ribs.

“Oh, yeah, right. Count me in too.”

 

 ~@~

 

John prayed that things would be easy as he reached the dorm that evening. He waited for the elevator in the lobby as taking the stairs was right out. Once he safely reached the upper floor, John dragged himself to the room with some effort, pushing the door open with a sliver of fear in his belly, wondering what new horror awaited him. It was quiet. The air was fresh. John’s desk had been cleared and wiped clean. Everything had been tidied away, and the carpet even looked as if it had been hovered.

“Thank the fuck Christ.” John blew out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

He limped to the freshly-made bed, dropping his bag to the ground as he slumped onto it. Leaving over, he fished out both his laptop, and a cold pack wrapped in a plastic bag. With a sigh, John maneuvered himself onto the bed, grabbing a pillow to shove under his left foot. He settled the ice pack over his swollen ankle before settling back with his computer.

Only a few minutes passed however before the door blew open and a certain tall, posh man swept in, muttering to himself, bringing in the smell of cold. He stopped short when he spied John on the bed.

“Oh, you’re back early.” For such a skinny bloke, he had no right to have a voice that rich and deep.

“That’s right,” John muttered, not looking up from his screen. He could feel his shoulders tensing already.

John ignored Sherlock as the man bumped around, opening drawers. He breathed a sigh of relief when he left the room, but the peace was short lived. In just a few minutes, he was back.

“Look, I’m sorry if I got a bit shirty with you yesterday," John said, still keeping his eyes on his screen but reading nothing of the actual text.

“Hmm.”

John startled, sitting up when Sherlock pulled the ice pack off his foot.

“Hey, I need that.”

“Incorrect. You’ve iced your injury immediately following the trauma to reduce inflammation. Now you require heat.” He dropped a small, heavy pillow around John’s foot, tucking it around his ankle to stay in place. The heat radiating off of it was instantly soothing.

“Oh, wow. What is that?”

“Buckwheat pillow,” Sherlock said, straightening. “I pulled a muscle last summer, and Mummy bought it for me. You can either put it in the freezer or microwave it. I found that it helped.”

“Right. Thanks. That feels brilliant.”

“You’ve already taken anti-inflammatory medicine?”

“Yeah, coach gave me some ibuprofen straight away.” John ran a hand back through his fringe, rumpling it away from his forehead. “Honestly, I was a complete idiot today, wasn’t watching where I was going. I ran right into Hutchins and fell back on my ankle. Boom.” John made a gesture with his hands, throwing them open.

“It wasn’t serious enough to go to hospital.” Sherlock said it like a statement instead of a question.

“Naw, it’s not too bad. Just a bit of a spill. I hit the back of my head when I went down, and I needed a lift home, but I’ll probably be walking just fine by tomorrow.” John quirked a smile. “I’m pretty tough.” He mimed rapping on his skull. “As my dad says, hard to keep a Watson down too long.”

“I’m sure,” Sherlock said, his expression inscrutable.

John figured the conversation was over as the enigmatic man turned away, moving with his computer to his desk. They settled into a companionable silence as Sherlock refrained from music of any sort, concentrating at typing away on something instead. John located earbuds to listen to his Arctic Monkeys playlist, and pulled up an article he’d been meaning to read for microbiology.  

John found his attention soon wandering though. Recent advance in antiviral medication began to pale next to the sight of the long, rambly man curled over his laptop nearby, one knee hugged to his chest. Christ, those legs were simply never-ending. The cool computer light washed over his profile, highlighting those gorgeous cheekbones in exquisite detail as he peered at his screen.

  
_Have you got color in your cheeks?_  
_Do you ever get that feelin' that you can't shift the tide_  
_That sticks around like summat's in your teeth_

John almost blushed at how appropriate the crooned lyrics slithering in over his headphones were.

  
_I dreamt about you nearly every night this week_  
_How many secrets can you keep?_

John hated to admit it, even to himself, but he HAD dreamed about Sherlock last night. The madman had been making popcorn that had expanded to fill their entire room. Fluffy kernels burst out into the hallway in a tidal wave as Sherlock waded through the mess, shouting that John needed to return his salt shaker. There’d been nothing particularly erotic about it, but still, John had woken up feeling out of sorts.

 _Do I wanna know?_  
_If this feeling flows both ways_  
_(Sad to see you go)_  
_Was sorta hoping that you'd stay_

Sherlock reached up to lay a long aristocratic finger to his upper lip, rubbing over it absent-mindedly as he frowned at something he was reading.

  
_Baby we both know_  
_That the nights were mainly made for saying_  
_Things that you can't say tomorrow day_

A pressure in John’s groin reminded him that he hadn’t visited the loo in several hours. He killed the music and pulled out his phone. A quick text confirmed that Mike wasn’t in the building.

“Oh, bugger,” John swore softly.

“Problem?” Sharp blue eyes regarded John from across the room.

“Yeah, no. Well, Mike’s out and I need help to . . .” John waved toward the door.

“Yes?”

“A piss, Sherlock. I need to get to the loo, and my ankle’s a bit shit at the moment.”

“Oh, I can assist you.”  Sherlock pushed back from his desk.

“You don’t have to. I don’t mean to bother you . . .”

“It would bother me if you urinated on the only bed currently in our room.”  Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“Okay, yes, fine,” John huffed. “I could use some assistance.”

“Fine.”

Sherlock stood, and moved to the side of bed, waiting patiently as John struggled upright, trying not to jostle his ankle too much.

“Bring the buckwheat pillow.” Sherlock pointed to the thing. “I’ll pop it in the microwave again.” 

“Yeah, great, thanks.”  John managed to get to standing. He hissed when he put too much weight on his hurt foot.

“Here, put your arm around me.” Sherlock moved in, threading an arm around John's middle. “Let me take your weight.”

“Yes, okay.” John tightened the arm not holding the pillow around Sherlock’s waist, trying not to find it . . . personal.

Together, they moved toward the door, Sherlock supporting John’s weight as he half shuffled, half hopped along.

John could smell the poncy hair product that Sherlock seemed to slather himself in, and underneath that, a subtle spicy musk, the scent of the man, himself. It was intoxicating. John _made_ himself not lean in closer and just breathe.

Sherlock supported him to the gents, holding open the door as he helped John lurch pathetically inside. He steered John past the line of urinals to the stalls and paused, holding out a hand.

“I’ll just go re-heat the pillow?”

“Oh, yes, please.” John handed it over, and reluctantly peeled himself away from the warmth of Sherlock’s side to hop the rest of the way to a toilet.

When John was done, he managed to make his way to a sink to wash his hands. For a moment, he worried that Sherlock had gotten sidetracked, and contemplated how hard it was going to be to get back to bed. The idea of crawling crossed his mind as he balanced against the sink. He was ridiculously grateful when the tall drink of water pushed in through the door again.

“Someone was heating up shepherd’s pie.” Sherlock rolled his eyes in exasperation as he held up the now re-warmed pillow.

“Always a queue.” John forced a small laugh.

They slid together again, Sherlock gallantly holding John up as he pushed the door open for them. It wasn’t fun doing an odd hop/limp down the hall, and they garnered a few funny looks along the route back to the room. John enjoyed having his arm around Sherlock so much, he hardly minded it though. The man was so skinny, he could wrap his arm all the way around him and hook his thumb in his front belt loop. Poor little bird. He needed feeding up.

They made it back to 221 somewhat inelegantly, Sherlock sliding John to the mattress, and handing him the warm pillow to prop around his ankle once more.

“Thanks, really. And thanks for the room too. It looks great.” John gestured to the tidied space around them.

“It wasn’t a problem.” Sherlock shrugged. “Mrs. Hudson cleaned the room.” He looked a bit chagrined. “She owed me a favour.”

“Oh, well, good then.” John wasn’t quite sure what else to say, and the two returned to their separate pursuits on their computers.

About the time John’s stomach was starting to complain, his phone buzzed with a text. John checked his messages and grinned. Sherlock took the noise as a signal to take a break himself, and looked up.

“John, do you require me to get you food for dinner?”

“Erm, wow, thanks, Sherlock. I really appreciate it, but that was Mike. He and Bill are finding me something.”

“Oh, alright.” Sherlock deflated slightly, and turned back to his keyboard.

John struggled, wondering if he might say something else, but he couldn’t think of anything, and they lapsed back to silence, John poking half-heartedly through his twitter account.

A knock and the burble of voices sounded at the door. Sherlock rose crisply to answer it.

“Johnny!” Mike burst in with Bill behind him, both carrying several bags and radiating bonhomie.

“Guys! Aw, you didn’t have to.” John smiled.

“You’re right, we didn’t. Let’s go.” Bill made to leave again.

“NO! God, no, get in here!” John cried, laughing, motioning them back.

His friends moved to the bed, dropping their packages on the bed beside him.

“Fucking hell. Mike told me you had an odd set up here. A double, John? Did you get married and not tell anyone?”

John felt his face heat. He looked quickly to see how Sherlock would take the comment, but the man has used the bustle to slip away from the room unseen.

John sighed.

“It’s a mix-up from the summer session. They said they’ll fix it and get us two twins beds as soon as they can. Fast as a speeding bureaucracy. What can you do?” John rolled his eyes.

“So, you’re sleeping with this Sherlock bloke, how’s that going?” Bill leered at him.

“Oh, shut it, Bill. For the love of God, it’s not like that.” John sighed again. “We’re just sharing the room. Half the time he’s not here, and half the time I’m not here.”

“Yeah,  I’d like to see someone actually date Sherlock Holmes. Bit of a nightmare that, really.” Mike said, setting to unpacking the bags.

John felt his face heat, but held his tongue as he helped his friends lay out their bounty. Mike sat on the edge of the bed, and Bill borrowed Sherlock’s desk chair as they set up a picnic of sorts across the duvet. The boys had managed to smuggle a number of things out of the dining hall in plastic bags.

“And the piece de resistance,” Bill crowed, revealing several large bottles of pear cider.

“Oh, you beauty.” John grinned. “Come to papa.”

“I was saving this for something special, but today’s good as any other, I reckon.”

“I owe you, mate!” John used the edge of his bedside table to pop the cap off one.

They ate and drank their fill, John completely forgetting about his injuries as he enjoyed his friends’ company.  Eventually they had to part ways though.

“Sorry, John, need to run. Have a paper due.” Bill made his regrets.

“Must have been due yesterday, right?”  John laughed, feeling pleasantly floaty after several glasses of cider.

“Yup, don’t you know.” Bill grinned. “Hey, John, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” He tipped his chin toward the bed, flashing a wink on the way out.

“Oh God, Mike. It’s not . . . we’re really not,” John sputtered, swinging toward his remaining friend.

“Don’t sweat it. Bill’s okay, but he’s a bit of an arse.”

“Yeah, alright . . .” John trailed off.

“Look, I need to run too. You can call if you need anything.” Mike clapped John’s good leg regretfully.

“Right, thanks, this was fantastic, mate. I really appreciate it.”

“No worries.” Mike helped clean up a bit, and then he was off too.

John re-opened the article on antivirals, and tried to finish it. Sadly, his head had started hurting again, and he simply couldn't concentrate. He found the pain-killer pills that Bill had left on his bedside table, and washed them down with the last of a bottle of water.

 John gave up on the article, and found his earbuds, settling down to listen to music and relax. He realized he was feeling a nagging pressure again, and cursed himself for not asking anyone to help him down the hall before they left. He was just considering ringing up Mike when Sherlock slipped into the room.

“Where are your friends?” He looked around, surprised.

“They had things to do.” John shrugged. “Look, hate to bother you again, but . . .  the loo? Would you mind?”

“Alright.”

As Sherlock stuck out a hand to help him rise, John realized he’d been subconsciously waiting for Sherlock to return. The cider he’d drunk made its presence known, and John swayed as soon as he stood upright.

“Watch it.” Sherlock caught his arm.

“Oh, sorry.” John let himself fall into Sherlock’s shirt front. He took a huge whiff of the man. God, he smelled good.

“You smell good,” John said, burrowing closer.

“John, you’re drunk.”  Sherlock sounded aghast.

“I’m not.” John pulled back, blinking, looking indignant. “Not drunkie drunk, well, not _so_ drunk . . .”

“Come on, to the toilet.”

They slipped arms around each other, and headed off to the bathroom, taking it like a three-legged race, the whole process going a bit easier for a second run. Again, Sherlock deposited John at stall, moving off to use a urinal himself once John was situated.

“If we should die tonight, we should all die together . . . “ Some lyrics chased their way through John’s mind and he couldn’t help giving them voice. “And I see fire, inside the MOUNtain . . .”

“John what in the world? Are you done?” Sherlock stood outside the door.

“I see fire, inside the trees. I see fiiiiireee . .  . blood in the breeeeze . . . And I hope that you remember meeeee.”

“John?” Sherlock sounded worried.

“Yeah, comin.” John managed to get his pants and jeans back up, flush, and stumble out the door.

“Oh, you know I see a city burnin’,  I see fiiiiire!” John belted out another line as he fell into Sherlock’s arms.

“Let’s get you back to bed.” The side of Sherlock’s mouth tipped up.

Somehow Sherlock maneuvered John through the hall and into the room.

“I see fiiiire!” John reprised as Sherlock lowered him to the mattress.

“Well, you’re certainly seeing something,” Sherlock said. “John, what have you taken tonight?”

“Oh, bit of this, bit of that.” John sighed, closing his eyes.

“No, what’s the list?” Sherlock shook his shoulder.

“Ow. Wha?” John blinked his eyes back open.

“What drugs did you ingest tonight besides ibuprofen, and alcohol?” Two clear blue spotlights bore their way into John’s vision.

“Erm, alright, keep your shirt on.” John smacked his lips. “Coach gave me a couple o’ advils. Then some pills . . . para . . . paracet . . .  oh bugger.”

“Paracetamol?” Sherlock snapped.

“Yeah, that’s right!”

“I’ll warrant you took more than that. Where did you get the paracetamol?”

“M’friend Bill left it.”

“I see.”

In a moment, Sherlock had John’s phone and was scrolling through it to make a call. John sank back into the pillows, only half listening as Sherlock exchanged heated words with someone. Sherlock obviously finished things up before tossing the phone to a side table.

“John, your friend, Bill, apparently left you two tablets of Paracodol- paracetamol with codeine. He said he warned you to take only half of one pill at a time.”

“Oh, God, yeah, ri’. Wasn’t thinkin’.” John frowned.

“Alright, budge over.”

John hazily allowed himself to be manhandled, someone pulling off his jeans, tucking pillows around him. He opened his eyes when he felt his foot being carefully moved.  John propped up on his elbows to watch as Sherlock expertly wound an elastic bandage over and around his ankle.

“Oh, ta.”

“You should have put this on earlier. Honestly, I worry for the future state of physicians in this nation.”

“Mmm, y’r funny,” John giggled.

“Yes, a veritable laugh riot,” Sherlock mused, securing the ends of the bandage.

“You’re great. My roomie though, I think he doesn’t like me,” John stage whispered.

“What?” Sherlock had gone stock still.

“Muh roomie, he’s a bit of a prick, you know.”

“Oh, I see.”

“Yeah, you’re MUCH nicer!”

“John, I think you need to go to sleep now.”  Sherlock had turned pink across his entire face.

“Mmmm,” John agreed, snuggling down into the bedding, letting his eyes slide shut.

After a few minutes, the light overhead turned off, and the mattress shifted as a weight settled beside him.  John made a small sound, curling in toward the nearby warmth instinctually.  A hand appeared to smooth over his back, drawing slow circles, and John sighed contentedly as he slid off to sleep.

~@~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first song John is listening to through his headphones is "Do I Wanna Know" by Arctic Monkeys. It has a gorgeous, dream-like sensuality to it that I adore. 
> 
> The second song featured here, that John is singing loudly in the loo, is "I See Fire" by Ed Sheeran. John is mangling the lyrics just a bit. This song is quite heartfelt, and was featured in a certain movie starring a cute, plucky Hobbit and a big, scary dragon. :)


	4. Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is silly. This whole story is just silly. Many thanks to those following a WIP and leaving encouragement. I do appreciate it! :D

 

~@~

 

John woke alone in the big bed feeling as if a truck had run over him. He had a nagging feeling that he might need to apologize for some things he’d said to his roommate the night before, but the man was nowhere to be seen. The other side of the bed was rumpled though. John hadn’t hallucinated his roommate crawling into bed with him last night. Sherlock’s coat and bag were gone so he seemed to have legged it off for the day.

John sighed, and pushed himself off to try a solo trek to the loo. He was gratified to find that while his ankle was still sore, he could at least put weight on it. He took it easy, skipping morning classes, but biology needed to be kept up with, and with only a bit of undignified limping, he was off for lunch and afternoon lectures.  

John’s phone buzzed in his back pocket as he made his way across campus. He slipped it out to find a text from Irene. She’d managed to secure a room for their study group, and had sent him the time and room number. John quickly sent back  “FAB, thanks” and a smiley face, and continued onward.

Footie practice was boring as John had to sit it out, reduced to watching the other boys dash around the field as he called encouragement from the sidelines. Coach Reynolds sat down for a moment to look his ankle over.

“At least you wrapped it up well. No worries, son, you’ll be back, right as rain, in a day or two.”

“Yeah, my roommate did it.” John tried not to blush.

“Ah, good to have you doctor types around.” Coach clapped John on the shoulder, and moved on to yell at Rory and Thomas to pick up their pace.

John grabbed a disappointing meal of mince and tatties with the rest of the team at the dining hall by the sports fields, and headed off for the library as soon as he could. Irene, Molly, and Mike were already there when John found the small study room on the lower level. He greeted everyone warmly, and thanked Irene for setting up the space.

 “I asked in a few others. I hope you don’t mind,” Irene said. The florescent light and burnt orange and lime walls made her look paler than usual, but the white jumper with a faux-fur collar she’d chosen suited her well.

John recognized the two women who soon joined them from class. They introduced themselves as Anne and Gwen. He had to hide a smile behind his fist as he watched how visibly Irene preened at welcoming them. Anne was short with dark hair and a baggy animal-print jacket, but Gwen was a pretty thing, tall and thin with her crinkly blonde hair back in a braid. Irene frowned when John laughed at something Gwen said and touched her arm.

 _Back off, buddy, this one is mine!_ Irene’s eyes glared silent daggers across the table.

 _Sorry, sorry, just being friendly!_ John sat back, eyebrows raised.

They flipped open text books and got to work, soon moaning over the fact that no one really understood half the material.  At least it was good to have company in their misery as they ground through an hour together.

“John, don’t forget, the Gay Student Alliance meet and greet is Friday!” Irene called as everyone packed to go. “Did you hang up your fliers?”

“Yeah, no worries,” John said, realizing he’d left them all in the bottom of his backpack.  

“Great, and did you ask your roommate?”

“Oh, God, Irene, no.”  John let all the air blow out of him.

“Come on, John, we need people.” Irene pulled out another stack of lurid pink pages from her bag. “Molly, could you post some in your dorm?”

“Oh, sure I’ll take a couple.” Molly reached over to accept a few sheets.

“That sounds interesting!” Gwen smiled Irene’s way.

“Yeah, what is that?” Anne looked up from packing her bag.

John left Irene and the new women nattering away as he, and Mike and Molly waved good-bye.

“And that’s a shoot and score for Irene!” John grinned as they pushed out of the library into the cool of the evening.

“Well, she hasn’t scored yet, we’ll have to see,” Mike chuckled. “Guess we’re all going to live vicariously through Irene.”

“Yeah, looks that way,” John said, hefting his bag higher over his shoulder.

 “How’s your ankle, John?” Molly watched as John favored his sore foot on the walk back.

“Loads better. Mike and Bill were lifesavers showing up with dinner, yesterday. Thanks again for that by the way.”

“Happy to help, mate. I’m sorry you’ve still got that Sherlock bloke to deal with though. I’d take you as a roommate if I didn’t already have Nigel. He’s a good sort.”

“Yeah, I understand.” John nodded. “Really though . . .  Sherlock. He’s not so bad.”

“I was lucky to get a single,” Molly said. “I’m terrible sharing space with other people.”

“Oooh, you ARE a lucky woman!” Mike exclaimed.

“How did you swing that?” John asked.

“Well, my allergies, you know.” Molly rubbed the back of her hand across her nose.

“Oh, right.”

“Well, this is me.” Molly tipped her head toward a fork in the path.

“Oh yeah, night, Mols!” John paused under the bright pool of light from a streetlamp overhead.

“See ya later,” Mike added in.

“Bye.” Molly waved.

John and Mike waited, watching as she clicked her way down the pavement toward her dorm before they continued on. Mike asked John how he thought the football team would do that year, and John happily dissected the team’s strengths and weaknesses all the way back to their dorm.

John remembered the fliers in his bag as they passed a notice board in their lobby.

“Oh God, I still have to put up . . . the rest of Irene’s fliers.” John stopped to fish the stack out of his bag. “Go on, I’ll catch you later.”

“Alright. Good night.” Mike nodded on his way to the stairs.

John found a spare tack and a bit of space amidst the board by the elevator. He nestled Irene’s Queer Meet & Greet flier between pizza adverts, a sign about a bike for sale, and a call to join the campus choir. At least the lurid pink stood out. He looked at the rest of the pages guiltily and decided he could tape the rest up in the dorm hallways, one on each level.

John trudged up to his room to look for tape to finish the task and be done with it. His heart did the tiniest of flips when he found Sherlock had resurfaced, now propped at his desk on his laptop, big headphones buried in his dark curls.  Sherlock ignored him, and John left him alone as he rummaged through his desk drawers. When he could find what he was looking for, he was forced to tap Sherlock on the shoulder.

“Hey, sorry to bother you. Got any sellotape?”

“Oh, yes.” Sherlock reached over to a drawer, stuck long fingers into the back of it and, extracted what looked like the roll that John had had earlier. He passed it over absentmindedly.

“Thanks, mate.”  John sat on the edge of the bed, ripping off small strips to stick around the first page.

“What’s that?” Sherlock had slipped his headphones off to peer at John’s progress.

“Oh, it’s a get together. Here.” John tossed a sheet in Sherlock’s direction. “You could come if you were interested.”

Sherlock caught the page, his expression souring as he glanced over it.

 “Queer meet and greet.” Sherlock sneered as he read the words aloud. “What rubbish. Why would you think I’d be interested in this?”  He held the page away between two fingers as though it smelled bad.

John’s stomach did a dive. _Oh God, maybe Sherlock was straight_.

“Well, my friend Irene is running it. She asked me to drum up some bodies, you know, fill up the room? It’s not just for gay people.” John felt as though words were speaking him instead of the other way around. “Trans, pan, bi, ace . . . straight allies are welcome. Really anyone can come. Absolutely open.”

“Not really my area.” Sherlock lobbed the page toward John before turning back to his screen.

“Yeah, okay, no worries.” Dejected, John left the room to hang the pages on the doors to the stairwells.

He limped back to the room when he'd finished, his ankle starting to ache again. With a sigh, he sank to the bed, happy to prop his sore foot on a pillow as he mucked about on his laptop for a bit. John was snickering over a ridiculous video of cats falling off of furniture when Sherlock stood to stretch, and moved to regard his leg.

“Your injury seems to still be bothering you. Would you like the buckwheat pillow again?”

“Oh, God, yes.” John pulled the headphones from his ears. He realized how suggestive that had sounded, and tried to backpedal a bit.  “If you don’t mind, that would be fantastic.”

Sherlock nodded, moving to fetch it. John expected Sherlock to simply chuck the pillow at him and be done, but the man surprised him when he left the room to warm it in the microwave in the small kitchen down the hall. John tried not to read too much into it, but a burst of pleasure still spread over him.

Sherlock returned shortly, and again instead of handing the pillow to John, set about tucking the soothing warmth around John’s ankle himself.  John sighed, watching as those elegant fingers worked.

“Hey, I really want to thank you for helping me so much yesterday. I think I was a bit out of my mind, sorry.” John tried not to stare at Sherlock’s beautiful hands as the man moved away.

“You were indisposed,” Sherlock agreed.

“Yeah, you did an excellent job of wrapping my foot. Coach even said so.” John smiled. “ Not thinking of going into the doctoring business yourself are you?”

“Doctoring, no?” Sherlock waved the idea away. “That would involve _people_.” He said the word as if it left a bad taste in his mouth.

“Well, you’ve definitely got the knack.” John gestured toward his foot.

“I’ve suffered enough twisted ankles myself.” Sherlock shrugged. “You grow accustomed with how to treat them.”

“Oh, really?” John cocked his head to the side. “No offense, but I don’t see you as the outdoorsy sort.”

“I’m not.” Sherlock shrugged. “I danced regularly through sixth form.”

“Oh, wow,” John exclaimed. “What sort?”

“Some modern, a bit of tap, but mostly ballet.” Sherlock looked a bit wary, expecting John to take the piss.

“And you don’t dance anymore?”

“It’s not the sort of thing I planned to build a career around, and I’ve more important things to be doing now.”

“Oh, yeah.” John nodded. “Uni keeps anyone on their toes.” 

John barked a laugh when he realized what he’d said.

“Hmm, I suppose.” Sherlock looked as if he wasn’t sure if he should smile or frown.

“But what about clubbing? Surely you still like to go dancing some nights?”

“Not really, no.”

The idea of Sherlock dancing was mesmerizing. John could just imagine how he might flow across a dance floor, all lithe limbs, and elegant grace. John licked his lower lip.

“No? That’s terrible. You really should. Next time I go out, you should come. It'll be fabulous,” he teased.

Sherlock frowned.

“John, erm ... I think you should know that I am committed to my studies, and while I’m flattered by your interest, I’m really not looking for any ...”

“Nope, no, I’m not asking . . .” John felt a wash of horror flood over him. “Sorry, nothing like that.”

“Oh. Alright, then.”  Sherlock looked a bit confused as he returned to his computer.

John sighed, and opened a paper he needed to work on, and thankfully the awkward moment passed. Finally as the clock ticked deeper into the night, John yawned, and closed his laptop with a snap. He put things away on his desk, and grabbed his bathroom kit to go brush his teeth and get ready for bed. When he returned, Sherlock hadn’t moved from his desk. John cleared his throat.

“Sherlock?”

“Hmmm?” Sherlock turned unfocused, pale eyes his way.

“Lights out? Do you mind?”

“Oh, the time.” Sherlock seemed to startle as he sought out the clock at the corner of his screen.

John was bracing for a fight of some sort, but Sherlock merely closed his computer, ruffled his hands through his hair, and pushed away from the desk.

“So .  .  . bedtime?” John asked tentatively.

“I suppose so. I’ve nothing better on.” Sherlock shrugged his shoulders back a few times to loosen them after so long hunched over his work.

“Erm, alright. Good.”

John didn’t think they’d ever actually gone to bed at the same time. It felt a bit strange, turning down the covers, putting out the lights, getting ready for sleep together. Sherlock left his desk lamp on as he changed into an old tee shirt and loose pyjama bottoms. John quickly averted his eyes to give him a bit of privacy, taking a moment to gather all his stray socks off the floor and get them into his laundry bag. 

Finally all was done, and there was nothing left but to climb into the big, soft bed together. Sherlock hesitated, looking a bit lost as he hovered beside his desk. John tried to keep it normal, nothing to see here, just a couple of blokes going to sleep. Yup. He jumped into the bed with a bit more bounce than was actually needed, plumped the pillow behind him, and tugged the duvet up to his chest as he snuggled down.

“Ah, that’s good. I’m knackered. Get the light would you, mate?”

“Yes, of course.” Sherlock nodded, looking a bit more sure of himself. He snapped off the lamp, and made his way to his side of the bed in the dark.

John felt the dip of the mattress, and the small whoosh of air as Sherlock lifted the duvet on his side to climb in, long legs sliding down over the crinkling sheet.                                           

“Well, g'night!” John said cheerily to the dim shape settling onto the pillow beside him.

“Yes, good night,” came the slightly formal response.

John turned onto his side away from Sherlock to face the wall.  He wanted to groan when his traitorous brain began to conjure images of Sherlock in dance gear. Had he worn shorts or those skin-hugging leggings, or maybe tights with a cup John wondered? God, the idea of those mile-long legs encased in pink lycra . . .

Some idiots in the quad outside called loudly to one another just below their window. John snorted quietly, and made himself list the elements of the periodic table in order, ignoring the slight rustlings behind him until sleep finally claimed him.

John woke into hazy, early light, waiting a moment as full consciousness and awareness of the man sleeping nearby settled over him. John was so comfortable, the idea of ever getting up seemed sacrilege. He turned his head to find Sherlock sprawled beside him, his face mere inches away on the neighboring pillow. His face was sweetly relaxed, looking near angelic in his sleep. God, the man was unfairly pretty. And so not interested in John. (Or men? Or relationships?) Which was a crying shame as one of his long legs was currently thrown across the lower half of John’s body, trapping him against the mattress. It was okay, John reassured himself. Sherlock really was a handful. Probably be a crap boyfriend when it came right down to it. It was likely for the best if they just remained friends, or simply roommates. John had enough going on with his studies and football practice. No time really for any romantic entanglements.

Sherlock murmured in his sleep, and shifted, curling closer to tuck his face against John’s shoulder.

Gaaawd. John sucked in a lungful as hints of coconut and expensive flowers wafted up from the mess of raven curls. Under that lay the cozy, human smell of the man himself. It would be so damn easy for John to pull him closer, roll Sherlock on top of him, and slot their bodies together to rock . . .

John’s alarm blared out into the quiet of the dorm room.

As Sherlock blinked awake, John wrenched himself out from under him, and hopped clear out of the bed to bang the alarm off.

“Good morning!” John chirped, fairly scampering to grab his shower bag and towel, and scurry down the hall to the bathroom.

Once in a shower stall by himself with the water running and the curtain firmly in place, John touched his hard cock, and groaned. He moved to pour a small measure of shampoo into his cupped palm, running it along his shaft. Making a fist, he pumped quickly, establishing a rhythm, unconcerned with making anything last. He tried to focus on large, round tits, remembering Sheila, a girl he dated briefly in sixth form. Or Sarah, a woman in his biology class with a lovely arse, but all his thoughts melted into midnight curls, piercing blue eyes, and long, elegant legs wrapped around his  . . . John braced himself against the wall as he came, painting warm stripes against the tiles with a gasp.

John wished he’d thought to grab clean clothes on his dash to the loo, but he settled for putting his old tee shirt and boxers back on. He took his time, shaving, brushing his teeth, but eventually he had to go back to his room. Sherlock was still in bed when he returned having obviously burrowed back in, just a tuft of curls peeking out from the duvet. John lost no time in finding clean things, pulling on fresh clothes quickly and efficiently.  He thought he might have seen an eye emerging from the bedding, but his roommate was well and truly buried when he turned back around.

John could make all of this normal. It could be normal sharing a bed. He had spent enough time with his footie mates that he knew how the banter and teasing went.

“Hey, Holmes, don’t you have a class this morning?” John smacked where he thought his roommate’s flank was through the covers.

Sherlock immediately flipped back the duvet to glare at him, his blue eyes, embers of outrage.

“Kindly leave my person alone.”

“Hey, just trying to help.” John held his hands up in surrender. “Thought you might want to keep your grade point average above failing.”

“I’ve told you. Classes are for little people. I don’t need them.”  Sherlock pulled the duvet back up to swallow him whole, radiating pique.

“Fine, fine. Sorry I said anything.” John finished packing his rucksack, and headed out the door without another word.

 

~@~


	5. Five

~@~

 

“Morning,” John said to the top of his roommate’s tousled head.

“Good morning, John.” Sherlock blinked, lifting his head from John’s chest. He rolled away, waiting for John to turn off the alarm.

It was weird if John stopped to think about it, how things had sifted out. Oh sure, John had called Residential Services a few more times, gotten busy signals, left a message, and then he’d just . . . stopped.

John hit the clock next to the bed silencing the insistent bleep, and pulled himself out of bed. He scratched at his belly as he located his towel and bag for the bathroom. Generally Sherlock lounged in bed a few more minutes while John hit the loo, and today was no different.

He wondered briefly about it all in the shower after pulling out a quick one. Having a wank was now simply a part of his morning routine between soaping up his pits and washing his hair. You’d think they might have had a conversation about . . . things at some point, but for some reason, it never came up.

Every night, he and Sherlock simply stopped what they were doing at about 10:30 pm, drifted off in turn to use the loo, then turned out the light and got into bed together. They’d always start out respectably tucked up on their own sides, but at some point in the night, one or the other of them would shift, and they’d wake in morning somewhere in the middle tangled up together. Sure it was a bit unusual, but truth be told, he was getting some of the best sleep of his entire life. Who in their right mind would mess that up?

John finished rinsing the shampoo from his head. He turned off the taps, and dried himself, wrapping the towel around his waist  before going to the sink to shave.

“Morning, John, how’s it goin’?” Mike’s roomie, Nigel, breezed in. “Any luck with the bed situation?”

“Oh, yeah, no worries.” John managed a small chuckle. “It’s all sorted.”

One night, Sherlock came running in late at half past eleven looking quite flustered. Truth be told, John had been a bit nervous too at the break in their routine, but they hadn’t talked about that either. They’d just carried on, turned out the light and gone to bed, same as they’d been doing for the last two weeks.  The next morning though, John had casually suggested that Sherlock give him his mobile number. Sherlock had gotten out his phone, and they’d exchanged the information without really talking about why.  

John knew when his away football games started, he’d have some later nights, but he decided to cross that bridge when it arrived. For now it was an infinite comfort to know that no matter how crazy and packed his days might be, he could look forward to a good night’s sleep, the quiet susurrus of his roommate’s deep breaths beside him.

 

~@~

 

John sauntered into organic chem with a little spring in his step. It was amazing what a little consistent rest could do for your disposition.

“Morning, all.” He smiled around as he took his seat by his friends.

“John, try not to be so annoyingly cheerful this early, hmm?” Irene pushed her dark glasses off her nose and on to the top of her head. She looked a bit less polished than usual, her hair tucked back in a sloppy bundle. “God, I was up half the night trying to figure out the last chapter.”

 “I know, it was bloody awful.” Mike nodded. “I think valence shell electron pair repulsion theory must be the devil’s own work.”

“I’m glad we’ve got the study group tonight, I’m going to need it,” Molly added, chewing at the end of her pen.

“What did you think of it?” Irene turned to John.

“Oh, God. I forgot about it.” John grimaced. Truthfully, he’d started writing some poetry for his composition class last night, and the time had completely gotten away from him.

“I can’t fail this class.” Irene looked fierce. “I need to understand this material.”

 “We need help,” Mike said. “We have to recruit someone into the study group who actually knows all this.”

“Who in this class ACTUALLY understands this bollocks?” Irene glared about. “We must have them.”

“Sherlock had highest marks in general chemistry last year,” Molly piped up. “He’s in this class.”

“Oh, he’s brilliant alright, but a proper headcase,” Mike said. “John’ll tell you.”

John felt his face heat as he tried to shrink into his chair.  “He’s okay,” he mumbled.

“John’s roommate? That sex-on-a-platter man? How can he be in this class?” Irene’s gaze flicked around the room.  “I’ve not seen him once.”

“Sherlock doesn’t ‘do’ class.” Molly made air quotes with her fingers.

“I had lab with him last year,” the new girl, Gwen, said, craning around Irene. “He was never in the class, but he was always there at night.” She frowned. “I think he did get top marks in that too.”

“Perfect, we must have him.” Irene flashed a smile at Gwen.

Ever since the GSA Meet and Greet, Gwen and Irene had been nearly joined at the hip. John was happy for them. He’d dutifully shown up at the event, sipped a coke, chatted with few familiar faces, and then slipped out the side door when Irene wasn’t looking. Of course the fact that she was already chatting up Gwen hadn’t made his early get-away too difficult.

“John, he’s your roommate, you must get him into the study group.” Irene pounced on John again.

“Erm, I dunno. Really, I hardly ever see him.” John shrugged. “We never talk.”

It was true. He and Sherlock rarely crossed paths during the day. John has seen him once in the afternoon stalking away from the student union with a take-away cup in his hand, all long limbs and flapping coat. In the evening, they settled for nodding in greeting when one entered the room. Aside from the odd question or two . . . “Pardon, do you have a charger cord I could borrow?”. . .  and a rather formal “Good night,” and later “Good morning,” they hardly exchanged a word. John took it as a sort of a truce, an unacknowledged cease-fire that required a mindful silence to continue.

“I have a lab with him this semester,” Molly said. “I could ask him this afternoon.”

“How do you know he’ll be in class?” Gwen asked.

“Professor Hardings has banned him from using the labs after hours.” Molly leaned in, dropping her voice. “He nearly set the entire lab on fire last week.”

John flashed back to the incident several nights ago when Sherlock had rushed home late. There had been a slightly acrid chemical odor clinging to his clothes and hair before he’d gone for a wash. They’d of course ignored it, and gone to bed as usual.

“Yeah, but do you think you can get him to agree to a study group?” Mike frowned.  “He doesn’t seem the sort who’d go for that.”  

“I have a bargaining chip.” Molly’s eyes were sparkling. “The professor has told Sherlock he’s not to have any extra lab supplies, but I’ve got a few things I could share with him.”

“Oooh, good woman.” Irene grinned. “Get on it.”

The chatter died down as the professor began their lecture at the front of the classroom. John sighed and opened his notebook, determined to wedge as much learning into his brain as he possibly could.

 

~@~

 

John hurried from the gym to his study group, the wind tearing at the jacket he hadn’t bother doing up. A warm puff of air greeted him at the library entrance, and he made his way quickly down to the study rooms. Through the small window on the door, he spied the usual heads bent around the table with the addition of a new dark mop of curls. Everyone looked up as he pushed his way into the room.

“John.” Sherlock seemed surprised.

“Yeah, hey, everyone. Sorry I’m late. Coach kept us a bit longer than usual.” John went for the only free chair that happened to be between his roommate and Molly.

Molly smiled, but Sherlock merely continued staring, an almost blank look on his face.

“No worries, mate. Glad you’re here now,” Mike said.

“You haven’t missed much,” Irene drawled. “We’ve just had Sherlock telling us how dull our tiny minds must be.”

“And how it’s a wonder any of us made it to uni at all,” Anne, the short, dark-haired girl, added wryly as Gwen smothered a laugh.

“Now, we’re going to discuss aromatic substitution.”  Irene leveled a narrow look at Sherlock. “Aren’t we?”

“Yes, well . . .”  Sherlock cleared his throat, seeming to collect himself. “If you’ll just flip in your textbook to chapter seven, you’ll see a chart that should make it apparent even to the slowest intellect that  . . .”

John stared, mesmerized as Sherlock expounded on electrophilic substitution, watching the shape of his cupid’s bow lips as he rapid-fired words at the table. He’d forgotten how lovely that deep voice of his was.

“In terms of the reaction mechanism, the aromatic ring attacks the electrophile. This step leads to the formation of a positively charged cyclohexadienyl cation, also known as an arenium ion . . .”

Sherlock waved his long, graceful hands in the air, jabbed occasionally at Mike’s textbook as he seemed to have come without one, and then leapt up to scribble something across the whiteboard.

“Both the possible arene substitution patterns, and the speed of an electrophilic aromatic substitution are affected by the substituents already attached to the benzene ring.”

He’d soon filled the entire wall with a complex of hexagons, letters, and arrows. It reminded John of nothing so much as a scrimmage chart that Coach would often force on the team, passionately describing a play they might follow. Sherlock seemed just as excited as he finished, drawing a final mark with a flourish before whirling about to regard their frowns.

“So you’re saying that substituents can be divided into two classes depending on whether they activate or deactivate towards the aromatic ring?” John tilted his head.

“Yes, exactly.” The smile that lit up Sherlock’s face was a beautiful thing. He whirled back around to point to a section of his work, and John couldn’t help noticing how nicely his button-up shirt strained across his broad shoulders.

The hour flew by much quicker than usual, and John felt that he’d actually benefited from the time together. Perhaps orgo wasn’t as impenetrable as he’d feared earlier. Still, it was no picnic in the park. Afterwards, they packed up their things, making good-byes. Sherlock skittered off immediately, muttering about something he needed to attend to.

“John, you naughty thing. You didn’t tell me just how delicious he is.” Irene slid into Sherlock’s vacated seat to murmur by his ear. “If I weren’t a raging lesbian, I might go after him.”

“Yeah, he’s something, isn’t he? God, he’s smart.”  John sighed. “We’re just friends, though.”

“Nooo!? How can you possibly resist that arse? And that brain? I bet he’d say the most delightfully filthy things in bed.”

“Irene, you have a dirty mind.” John grabbed up his books to shove into his rucksack. “Anyway, I wouldn’t know. Sherlock doesn’t _do_ relationships.”

“Well, he doesn’t _do_ class either, and we got him into our little study group.” Irene raised an eyebrow. “I bet you haven’t even tried. Just pour on a little of that Watson charm. He’ll melt like butter.”

“Irene. Please. He’s not like that. Besides, I’ve got to share a room with the bloke, alright?” John flicked his eyes to the pretty woman watching them nearby. “Gwen is waiting for you.”

“Yes, well.” Irene chewed at her lip. “He likes you. I can tell.”

“How can you tell?” John stopped zipping his bag.

“Are you mad?” Irene narrowed her eyes. “He couldn’t keep his eyes off you!”

John snorted rudely at that. “He’s just amazed that a footballer can occasionally string words together.”

“If you say so.” Irene laughed and patted John on the arm. “Good night, darlings!” she called to the room at large, scooping up her bag, and whirling away in cloud of perfume to join her girlfriend at the door.

 John found himself walking with Mike and Molly as usual, back to the side of campus with their dormitories.

“He’s not so bad, your roomie. Still a bit of a prick, though, hmm?” Mike chuckled. “ _How restful it must be in your tiny minds_.”  He dropped his voice to mimic Sherlock’s deeper tones.

“Well, it was nice of him to explain everything like that,” John said almost defensively. “Christ, he’s a bloody genius, isn’t he?”

“Some people simply take to orgo. Their minds are built that way.” Molly tapped her forehead. “The rest of us have to play catch up.”

They waved Molly good-night when they neared her dorm, watching as she made it to the front of her building.

“So, it was lucky you finally got the bed thing sorted.” Mike nudged John as they walked on. “Took them long enough.”

“Yeah, it did.” John chuckled nervously.  

“You’re a better man than me to put up with the bloke. I can’t imagine rooming with him,” Mike said, clearly warming to the topic. “Molly’s right about the labs. He’s nearly exploded them a number of times. It’s a wonder they don’t expel him.”

“Yeah, well, the price of genius, I suppose,” John said, starting to grow a bit irritated with the conversation.

He was grateful when they reached their rooms and parted ways. John unlocked his door and stepped inside, somewhat disappointed to find that Sherlock hadn’t gotten back yet. He was reading an article on his laptop, propped up against the headboard when Sherlock swept in. As usual they nodded briefly in greeting.

Sherlock seemed a little preoccupied as he flitted about the room, divesting himself of his coat, piling some books left on the floor onto his desk, and then nearly knocking them over again as he moved something else. Pop music was coming faintly from one of their neighbors, and a stomping could be heard down the corridor, but it sounded loud in the room when Sherlock cleared his throat.

“I didn’t know you were in Molly’s study group.” Sherlock poked the edge of a notebook sticking out from a stack on his desk, lining up the edges.

“Yeah, we’ve been friends since freshman year. We pre-meds have to stick together.” John smiled. “That was good what you did tonight, helping out with the study group. I know you hardly needed _us_ to understand all that.”

“I found that it wasn’t without merit . . .” Sherlock tented his long fingers like a great spider over his desk, tapping them lightly against the wood. “Discussing things with others can help me sort it in my own mind.”

“Oh, yeah, I’ve always thought so.” John watched as Sherlock transferred some things from his desk to the windowsill to make room for his laptop before settling down to peer at something on his screen.

They had a bit of time, sitting in the room together, absorbed in their own reading before John put his laptop away and left to use the loo. Sherlock went next after John returned. John was in his old shirt and ratty track bottoms when Sherlock appeared in his sleep tee and pjs. They puttered around a few more minutes, then John turned down the covers and got into bed. Sherlock who was always the last to lie down, fiddled with a few thing before snapping out the lights and sliding in next to John.  Quiet breath in the dark competed with the sounds of someone tossing a ball against the wall next door.

“Good night, John.”

“Yeah, 'night.”

John woke before his alarm, lying for a moment in the dim light, drowsing, enjoying the dorm actually being quiet for a few minutes, and of course . . . Sherlock. The man was flopped half over him in what seemed to be his usual morning position. Today though, John’s shirt had ridden up in the night, and Sherlock’s large hand splayed over John’s middle lay half across bare skin. Ah.

So warm, Sherlock was deliciously warm, slumped in a heap against him. If John tipped his face his face down just a bit, he could smell Sherlock’s breath. It was slightly sour, but mostly it simply smelled like Sherlock, only more so. Springy curls tickled against his cheek. John’s arm caught under him had gone all pins and needles. John wanted to move it, but he didn’t want to risk waking the man. Sherlock shifted then, made the tiniest noise as he burrowed just a bit closer, his nose nearly in John’s armpit as his hand tightened over his waist. John could feel his insides warming, a tingling building low in his groin. 

_God. This man._

What was John going to do about all this? For just a moment, he felt caught between the worlds, between night and day, sleeping and waking, between absolutely not, and . . . just maybe.

His alarm clicked to life.  Blue eyes popped open, soft for just a heartbeat, before sense seeped in and they grew sharp, almost accusatory.

“Good morning.” Sherlock immediately rolled away, pulling the duvet up over his shoulder.

John sighed, and pushed up to sit on the edge of the bed, reaching out to silence the noise.

“Good morning.” John rose to begin his day.

~@~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to SmirkDoctor and Wikipedia for giving me SOMETHING to say about organic chemistry. I majored in art. I know nothing about organic chemistry . . . we'll just roll with it, right? ;)


	6. Six

~@~

 

“Hullo.” John yawned as he slid into his seat next to Irene in organic chem. “How is everyone?”

“Awake,” Mike said. “I won’t vouch for much more.”

“Can’t complain too hard.” Irene turned to smile at Gwen sat next to her.

Gwen returned her grin, tucking her twisted hair back behind her ear. They both look like they rolled out of bed five minutes ago, and just remembered that organic chemistry class even existed. Irene leaned in to drop a quick peck to her girlfriend’s upturned lips and it made John smile just looking at them. How sweet to be involved in something so uncomplicated.

“Excuse me, is this seat taken?” The familiar deep voice rattled John out of his reverie, and he craned his neck back, up and up past a dark coat to find a pale face topped by a gorgeous mess of black of curls regarding him.

“Oh, Molly usually . . .” Mike started to say.

“No, it’s fine, really. Take that one.” Molly appeared, clutching her laptop. “I can sit by Mike.” She moved to the seat on the far side of the group, and there was nothing left but for Sherlock to gracefully settle into the open chair by John.

“What are you doing here?” John leaned in to whisper. He couldn’t help the shock at seeing his roommate up close and personal in chemistry class. It was like catching Father Christmas shopping at Tesco.

“I _am_ registered in this class.” Sherlock lifted an eyebrow. He dropped his bag to the floor before unbuttoning his coat, letting it fall to drape around the back of his chair.

“I thought this was beneath you.” John waved a dismissing hand. “Only plebians actually attend lectures.”

“I often attend a few lectures before midterms and finals to see what the teachers focus on.” Sherlock stiffened. “I can generally extrapolate the contents of the exam from that.”

“Ooh, brilliant.” Irene leaned across John toward Sherlock. “You can let the study group know what we can expect then.”

Sherlock snorted rudely. 

“Irene, please.” One of the hairsticks the woman has used to fasten a hasty bun at the back of her head waved dangerously close to John’s eye.

“Sorry, luv.” Irene settled back, patting John’s arm.

The teacher began the class, and the bubbles of conversations around them stilled as eyes moved to the front of the room. John tried to focus on what the professor was saying, but it was hard going. He was so aware of the man stretched out in his chair next to him, his long legs neatly crossed at the ankle, arms folded across his chest.

“The bonding patterns open to carbon, with its valence of four _. . .”_ The professor turned to sketch something on the white board.

John’s eyes drifted Sherlock’s way. He noticed that his roommate had chosen his blue button-up shirt that day. John really thought it brought out the extraordinary colour of his eyes. They were such an indecipherable shade when you got down to it. Mostly blue, but sometimes more grey, and even hints of green in the right light  . . .

“Organic polymers with conjugated systems . . .”

John tried to write something the professor had said into his notebook. Sherlock shifted, moving to lean an arm across his desk top. Sherlock had the fairest skin. He’d rolled his shirt sleeves up to his elbows, and the long, pale line of his forearm contrasted so beautifully with the dark of the wood it lay against. John noticed Sherlock had neglected to take out a notebook or laptop, merely smirking as he watched the teacher sketching out another diagram.

“What?” Sherlock whispered, turning eyes toward John that looked like pool water at midday in the bright fluorescent light.

“You aren’t taking notes,” John murmured.

“Well, really neither are you.” Sherlock leaned closer to look at his mostly blank page. “Here, copy that down, it’s important.” He tipped his chin toward the board. “Professor Caldwell loves his cyclic derivatives.”

John could smell him. He obviously hadn’t had time to shower and apply more of that poncy hair stuff that smelled like a Tahitian wet dream, but his scent was delicious all the same.  John’s eye latched onto the mole in the center of his long, pale throat,  leading his gaze down to his open top button. In a flash John had a sense memory of the man’s body pressed against his own, the heat where Sherlock lay, lax and vulnerable, a solid, grounding weight on his torso, a long leg tangled up in his own.

John swallowed and did his best to scribble something intelligible across his page.

When class was finished, Irene came over to hook her arm through Sherlock’s before he could make his get-away.

“You clever man, you really must come to dinner with us.”

“I’m terribly busy, I really don’t think . . .”

“Nonsense. We meet at Latham hall around seven. You must come.”

“I’ll check my schedule,” Sherlock murmured, his gaze flicking over to John.

John felt a blush grow across his cheeks. He’d been so sure that Sherlock wasn’t interested in socializing with people. Perhaps he’d simply been waiting for an invitation to join them . . .

Sherlock mumbled something about being late, and extricated himself from Irene to dash away. John watched the swirl of his coat as he navigated the exiting students to slip out the door. Gwen looked somewhat put out at losing Irene’s full attention, and Irene turned to make it up to her, smooching at her neck until Gwen giggled.

“See ya later, John.” Mike nodded as he passed.

“Yeah, bye, mate.”

Molly had a class near John’s next one and they walked together across the campus.

“I can’t imagine it’s very warm, all those holes in everyone’s clothes,” Molly whispered to John, nodding to a group of girls ahead of them. They were dressed in massive jumpers and tight, faded jeans that looked as though they’d been deliberated mangled with kitchen shears.

“You’re right, that has to be drafty,” John chuckled, glancing down at his own legs.

He had a small rip by his left knee, but he’d gotten it catching it on a nail at the bookshop that he’d worked at all summer. It was mad that all the trust fund babies at their uni, who could probably afford a truckload of new clothes, chose to swan about in trousers that were more artful rips than fabric.

“Some chose to suffer for fashion.” John shrugged.

“I don’t mind trying to be fashionable . . . occasionally,” Molly frowned, “ but that’s just silly.”

“We can’t all be as sensible as you, Molly Hooper.”

“Oh dear.” Molly stopped on the pavement.

“What? What’s the matter?” John stopped beside her.

“Maybe I don’t want to be sensible.” She turned wild eyes his way. “John, what if I’m letting the best years of my life pass me by? I’m in the labs almost every night.”

“Hey, calm down.” John stroked her arm. “I know we’ve all been busy lately. I think I could find a little free time this weekend. Why don’t we all hit the pub Saturday? Blow off a little steam before exams?”

“Yeah, that sounds good.” Molly swallowed and allowed John to lead them onward again.

“I’ll text everyone. See who’s free.”

“Okay, that sounds really good. Thanks.”

“No worries.” John waved good-bye when they parted ways, watching as Molly hurried off, shoulders hunched as she avoided a couple of tall blokes taking up most of the walkway.

John shook his head, and pulled his phone out of his back pocket. He wasn’t sure whether to include Sherlock in the invitation, but then he remembered the shy look he’d flashed John in orgo, and added his number to the message. It couldn’t hurt to ask.

 

~@~

 

John was a bit disappointed to find the usual crowd around the table at dinner, but no Sherlock. Gwen and her friend Anne seemed to have joined the group permanently, and Bill had added in a bloke called Collin, but no tall, posh mad scientists were to be found. John dug into his chicken casserole with a sigh. Everyone had agreed that a night out was just the ticket, and they debated on which spot to pick.

“How about the Brew Pub?” Molly suggested.

“Oh, all the rich knobs go there,” Mike whinged. “Not that place.”

“Old Towne?” John looked around the table.

“No, I’ve been asked not to return there,” Bill said somewhat ominously, picking at something stuck on the table.

“Blue Moon?” John offered.

 “The floor’s always grotty there.” Gwen wrinkled her nose.

 “Christ, you’re a bunch of picky bastards. Cross Keys, then?” John offered.

“Yes! That will do nicely!” Irene grinned.

“Oh, we always go there,” Molly said, frowning.

“Yeah, but it’s close and it’s the only place everyone likes.” John shrugged.

Everyone seemed to agree that Cross Keys was it, and talk turned to football scores on the blokes’ side of the table, and some telly series he wasn’t following on the girls’ side. John was left sitting in the middle, alternately glancing around the dining hall and scowling at his food. Sherlock hadn’t replied to the text he’d sent out earlier either.

“The chicken’s not that bad is it?” Mike nudged him.

“No more so than usual.” John sighed. “I’m just tired. A lot going on.”

“Don’t you know it. I’ve got a quiz, two papers, and an online discussion group to finish this week,” Mike said. “I’m going to start losing my hair at this rate.” He ran a hand back through his already-thin brown fringe.

“Yeah, it’s mad.” John propped his chin over a fist and swirled his fork through his food.

After dinner, John had to check out some reserved reading from the library, so he trudged that way, and found the bound articles his professor wanted them to read. It was late by the time he made it back to the room. He couldn’t help the little flame that kindled in his chest at seeing a familiar head of curls bent over a laptop.

“Hey,” John said, shedding his things to fall on the floor.

Sherlock glanced up from his desk and nodded before returning to his work.

John set about readying himself for bed, went to change and brush his teeth. Sherlock of course looked as if he hadn’t moved a muscle in the meanwhile.

“So . . .” John cleared his throat.

Sherlock looked over, eyebrows raised.

“I sent out a text? Asking folks for a pub meet-up on Saturday? You didn’t reply if you were free or not.”

“Oh.” Sherlock pushed himself more upright in his chair. “I assumed you’d included me in the text in error.”

“Nooo. Daft man. Of course not.” John put his hands on his hips. “So, are you free, then? Everyone’s going.”

“Oh, well. I’ll have to see.” He frowned ever so slightly. “Perhaps.”

“Good.” John nodded.

John turned the covers down nonchalantly. He got in bed, fixed the pillow under his head, and turned on his side, closing his eyes to wait. Every night he still wasn’t sure if Sherlock was going to join him or not. He was gratified to hear the man finally moving about, leaving for the loo. He returned, and after a minimum of banging about, turned out the light and climbed onto his side of the bed. John smiled in the dark.

“That was . . . kind of you to ask me.”

John was surprised to hear the deep voice rumbling nearby. They rarely talked once the light went out.

“Yeah, of course. You’re always welcome if we’re going out.” John rolled onto his back. “We owe you a pint for helping so much with the study group.” He squinted toward the dark shape across the bed.

“Oh, yes . . . of course.” Sherlock sounded so much more hesitant that he normally did in the light of day.

“No worries.” John struggled to think of something more to say, but nothing would come. “Good night, then.”

“Good night.”

Sherlock rolled onto his side away from John, and John did the same, turning toward the opposite wall. Despite someone having what sounded like a rap concert down the hall, John let the soothing warmth of the body nearby lull him to sleep.

~@~

 

John feinted left then dove in, hooking his leg out to steal the ball from the other team’s midfielder.  He sprinted on, weaving past the figures dotting the field, seeing the negative space like a path leading him where he needed to go. Their best striker, Sadiq, waited in the open near their opponent’s goal, and John passed to him, a quick burst of joy exploding over him when he knew he’d hit the ball just right. Almost in slow motion, John watched Sadiq redirecting the ball, kicking it up in a perfect arc, straight past the goalie’s outstretched arm for a score. _God, yes._ A small roar of approval rippled from the crowd. This wasn’t a big game, but a fairly sizable group had gathered to watch the Saturday morning match.

John jogged back into position, a grin stretching from ear to ear as his teammates reached out for high fives.

“Nice one, mate.” Rory gave him a thumbs up.

“Yeah, thanks.” Things were really going John’s way that morning and he wanted to savor it.

When he’d opened his eyes that morning, he’d been draped along Sherlock’s impossibly long back, his arm flung across his gently-moving chest. They’d woken the last few days stretched alongside each other, but not touching. John had tried not to be disappointed, but his favorite days were waking up with an armful of mad roommate.

 John had blinked his eyes clear to find that one curl that hung over the nape of Sherlock’s neck filling his vision. That curl tormented him. He actually found himself thinking about it at odd times during his day. It was like a punctuation mark, a comma, a pause as John waited for the next brilliant thing to come out of that clever mouth. For one mad moment, he’d almost leaned in and planted one sweet kiss to it, but for better or worse, the alarm had sounded, and the moment had passed. John had sighed, and rolled away from Sherlock to turn off the insistent bleep.

Play resumed, and John licked his lips, getting his head back in the game. The opposing team seemed off, perhaps thrown playing on unfamiliar turf, and they pressed in, giving no leeway, scoring two more goals after that one. John let out a battle cry with the rest of the school when time was called and they’d won, 4 – 1.

Afterwards, the team massed in a group by the drinks station, slapping backs, and waving or blowing kisses at the audience. John took a water bottle gratefully, tipping it up to fill his mouth.

“Oi, Watson. We are going out to CELEBRATE tonight!” Thomas crowed.

“Yeah, party at Cavanagh’s place,” Sadiq grinned, tipping a his chin toward another player.

“Sorry, mates, I can’t join you.” John shook his head.

“What? Johnny, you are not faffing off again.” Rory moved to squirt some of his water over John’s head.

“Ah, stop it, ya tosser.” John pushed him away, good naturedly. “I’ve made other plans.”

“Oh, other plans, is it, Mr. High and Mighty?” Thomas teased.

“Yeah, a hot date.” John grinned. Of course this wasn’t, strictly speaking, the truth. A pub night with friends wasn’t that special, but he was really hoping his gorgeous roommate would also turn up. Perhaps with the lubrication of a few pints in a relaxed place they might unwind, discuss a few things. If he were just a bit tipsy, John might even have the courage to simply reach out and . . .

“She must be pretty,” Sadiq said, punching John’s shoulder.

“Yeah, and you don’t want all your handsome mates stealing her away.” Rory preened.

“Something like that.” John laughed, not wanting to get into the specifics. “Or maybe I don’t want your ugly mugs scaring up the place.” 

Coach Reynolds called out for everyone to gather at the locker room for a post-game talk. John turned, still smiling to grab his hoodie off the bench. He looked up to find Sherlock standing a few meters away, hands shoved deeply into his coat pockets, watching him.

“Sherlock.” John jogged over, surprised to see him, pushing a hand through his wet fringe. He suddenly felt very conscious of his sweaty, unkempt state, his mud-spattered shorts, and wished he’d had a moment to at least comb his hair back. Of course he quickly squashed the notion. Sherlock saw him every morning, sour-mouthed, unshaven, hair sticking every way it possibly could. What was another moment of looking scruffy?

“Hey there! I didn’t think footie was your thing,” John said when he reached him.

“I’m not against sports.” Sherlock drew himself up a bit taller. “Besides, I thought it was part of school spirit to support the team.”

“Right, you’re big on school spirit, I can tell.”

Sherlock’s mouth pressed into a wobbly line, trying to make up his mind if John were teasing him or not.

“Hey I’m glad you came, you got to see a good game.” John had played well if he did say so himself. In retrospect it was probably good he hadn’t known Sherlock was on the sidelines. It would have distracted him too much.

“Yes, congratulations.” Sherlock chanced a smile.

“Thanks.” John was utterly incapable of stopping the answering grin that took over his face. “So, you’re coming tonight? To the Cross Keys Pub?”

“Yes, I need to spend some time in the labs this afternoon, but I should be free by the evening.”

“Fantastic.”

“Hey, WATSON! Get a move on!” One of his teammates called across the field.

“Sorry, gotta run.” John winced.

“I understand.”

“Bye.” John jogged backwards for a moment. “I’ll see ya later.”

“Good-bye.”

John watched Sherlock raising a hand in farewell before he had to turn around, and hustle back to the locker room in earnest.

~@~

John showered and shaved carefully in the afternoon, spending all together too much time deciding on what to wear for the evening. Sherlock had been gone the rest of the day, and John was free to dig through his clothes, debating over what to wear. He finally settled on a newer checked shirt and some blue chinos that hadn’t seen too much wear. He and Mike joined Molly outside and they walked over together to meet up with the rest, chatting and laughing.

The night had turned chill and John turned up the collar of his jacket, watching the clouds of white mist that hung in the air before everyone’s lips. A night out had everyone a bit giddy after too much studying, and they pushed into the pub, happy to find the rest of their friends already ensconced in a corner with several tables pushed together.

 John couldn’t help scanning the crowd for Sherlock, but he didn’t seem to be around yet. They ordered a few pitchers of beer, and passed around a couple of orders of chips and nachos for the table.

“Hey, who’s up for a round of darts?” Bill asked brightly.

“Let us get our throats wet first, man,” Mike called back.

The first taste of cold brew was delightful, and John took a long swallow from his glass.

“Pass the food,” Gwen wiggled her fingers until some nachos moved to her end of the table.

“Oh, God, it’s that awful boy.” Molly tensed beside John, ducking down behind her hand.

“Mols, what’s wrong?” John leaned in to catch her eye.

“Don’t look. It’s Ewan.” Molly shuddered. “Is he coming this way?”

Sadly, Molly had suffered through an over-eager admirer who hadn’t taken no for an answer all last year. He’d stalked her for several months before finally getting the message to scram. Unfortunately, it looked as if the idiot was ready to try his luck again.

“Bloody hell.”  John ground his back teeth. “I’m going to tell the wanker to leave you alone, once and for all.”

“Oh, God, John, don’t. It’ll only make a scene.” Molly cringed.

“Alright, look do you trust me?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Stand up.”

Molly stood nervously from her chair.  John popped up beside her.

“Molly, darling, where have you been all my life?” John crowed.

Molly giggled as John swept her into his arms.

“Come here, you gorgeous woman.”

John liked to think he had a way with kissing, and he poured on every bit of his tried-and-true technique as he pulled Molly close and proceeded to snog the life out of her. The table erupted into whistles and catcalls. Finally John pulled back.

“Well, I guess I win that bet,” John announced loudly. A quick glance showed that Molly's stalker had buggered off.

Molly looked rather rumpled, but very grateful as John grinned around the table, one arm still slung about her waist.

“What bet?” someone called out.

“Well, that’s personal.” John winked, hefting his beer. “But I think Molly owes me my next drink.”

“Yup, I think I do.” Molly managed a smile.

John glanced across the pub to see the back of a head of dark curls, and a swirl of charcoal coat disappearing out the front door.

_Oh, hell._

 

~@~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooh, bit of a cliffhanger here, I know, but don't worry, things will get better!


	7. Seven

 

John punched his pillow into place, and tried to find a more comfortable spot to lie on.  He’d been hoping Sherlock might be at the room when he got home, but no such luck.

John had stayed with his friends at the pub until nearly closing. He'd run outside after the "curls and end of a coat" incident, but he hadn’t seen Sherlock anywhere. He half convinced himself that he must have imagined it. He banged several escalating texts into his phone over the course of the night . . .

_Sherlock, r u coming 2 pub?_

_Did u come & leave? ;(_

_Where r you???!!!!_

However, no answers were forthcoming. Eventually John gave up and joined in the television trivia conversation that the table had going. John was shocked no one else remembered “Bananas in Pyjamas.” It was his favourite telly show growing up, a live action thing with two blokes in big banana costumes, and their various animal friends.

“Come on, you lot . . .” John tried to remember the theme song to jog memories.

_“Bananas in pajamas are coming down the stairs,_

_Bananas in pajamas are chasing teddy bears . . .”_

 “I dunno, mate, that sounds right kinky.” Bill laughed.

“No, I remember it.” Irene leaned in across the table. “It was adorable. I always thought the Bananas were a gay couple though. Childhood icons.” She raised up her half-drunk pint in salute.

“Yeah, I agree!” John laughed and clinked glasses with her.

Back in the room, John tried to stay awake until Sherlock’s grand entrance, but after a long week, a football game, and at least four pints of beer in his belly, he drifted off.

It was clearly midday when John woke, and also clear by the lights left on all night that Sherlock had never appeared.  John scrubbed at his eyes, and smacked his lips to rouse a bit of moisture in his dry mouth. He fumbled upright to find his phone on the bedside table. He opened his text window and squinted at it. Sherlock still hadn’t responded to his messages. John felt a cold wave of fear crest over him. What if something had happened to the mad git? John typed quickly, his fingers flying . . .

Sherlock???

_WHERE the hell r u?_

_Am calling campus security!!!_

His phone buzzed as an answer finally arrived.

_Busy_

_Working_

Oh really? John stabbed in an angry response . . .

_WTF? Why didn’t you answer me??_

He waited just a moment for the reply . . .

_You are not my mother._

_Sod off._

John froze. He felt as if he’d been slapped. Sherlock was right. He wasn’t the man’s mother. He wasn’t the man’s boyfriend. When you got right down to it, they were barely even friends. John growled and threw the phone down on the bed in disgust, raking his hands back through his hair. He had a head ache, and Sherlock hadn’t made it any better.

_Damn the poncy bastard. Who needed him?_

John had a paper to write and laundry to do. Lots to fill the day. But first shower, and then the biggest tea he could get in a take-away cup. He made himself leave the comforts of the bed and stagger off for the loo.

Once he was dressed, and generally functioning, John tackled getting his laundry together. He crawled half under the bed to sweep all his dirty socks into his hamper bag. There were a few posh black socks on his roommate’s side, so he decided he might as well wash those too. John moved to Sherlock’s side, quickly herding the stray socks into his bag.

As he straightened up, he looked at the mattress, debating whether to strip the sheets and add them to the wash. He didn’t mean to do it,  but he fell head-first into the bedding. He could smell Sherlock all over his pillow, that spicy tropical beach-smelling stuff he used, but underneath that, something warm and human, the scent of the man himself. He curled around it.

“Shit.”

John felt like a real prat, huffing his roommate’s pillowcase like it was something illegal bought off the street. He made himself sit up. The idea of washing the bedding suddenly seemed like a horrible idea though, and he quickly made the bed, tugging the duvet into place, smoothing it down over the edges.

He spent the afternoon at his favorite spot in the library, actually getting some real work done. When he received a text that some of the footie lads were getting together for dinner at the student union, he packed it in and headed over.

“Watson!”  Rory called.

He was sitting with Sadiq and Thomas at one of the round tables set around the dining room.

“Man, you missed a PARTY last night,” Sadiq crowed as John sat down with his tray.

“It was epic.” Rory nodded. “Cavanaugh’s flat was great, and his flatmate got a discount on the beer on account of him working at the liquor store.”

“Yeah, it was mad,” Thomas said. “Some of the guys are probably still in bed sleeping it off.”

“It was loads of fun,” Sadiq said. “Bit crazy when the paramedics had to come for that girl passed out in the bushes though.”

“She was a first year.” Rory shrugged. “Couldn’t hold her liquor.”

“God, sorry I missed it.” John laughed, pulling a face.

“Yeah, you should have been there,” Sadiq agreed. “Hope your date was good.”

“Nope.” John looked down at his sandwich with a frown. “Got stood up.”

“You never.” Sadiq looked shocked.

“Not our Johnny boy. Didn’t you shag four birds last term?” Rory pushed his shoulder.

“You’re not losing your touch? Huh, John?” Thomas grinned. “What, is she blind?”

John took a deep breath.

“No, it’s a bloke and I think his eyesight is pretty good.”

“A bloke?” Thomas’s mouth dropped open.

“God, I didn’t know you was a fairy!” Rory exclaimed.

“Hey, that’s not on.” Sadiq slugged him in the arm. “My brother’s gay. You don’t say, _fairy_.” He turned his attention back on John. “I didn’t know you were gay, John.”

“Well, I’m not gay exactly. I’m bisexual. I like girls and boys.” John bristled a bit, but held his ground. “And I didn’t shag four girls last term. I went out on a few dates, but I didn’t sleep with them all.”

“So how does that work?” Rory scrunched up his forehead. “One day you fancy a bit o’ muffin, and the next day a sausage roll?”

“Oh GOD. Do you listen to yourself?” Sadiq rolled his eyes.

“Well, how does it work then?” Thomas asked.

“I dunno.” John shrugged. “I guess I just like who I like. I suppose I’m not too fussed about whether they piss standing up or sitting down.”

The boys laughed, and any tension around the table eased.

“So this bloke? He didn’t show?” Sadiq prompted. “The tosser.”

“Yeah, well. I think he just might have walked in on me kissing someone else at the pub.”

“You move in mysterious ways, John. I can’t say I’ve ever done that on a date.” Thomas bit into an apple. “Is this a bisexual thing?”

“No, God, no. I was helping a friend out. Chasing a creep off who won’t leave her alone. It didn’t mean anything.” John waved a frustrated hand.

“So you just explain it, yeah?” Rory said.

“I would if he were speaking to me. I think he’s avoiding me.” John slumped his elbows onto the table.

“I always get my girl chocolate when I bollocks something up.” Sadiq suggested. “Do you think that might work?”

“Huh. It can’t hurt.” John shrugged.

John was grateful when the conversation turned back to the massive party the night before and who had made the biggest fool of themselves. John laughed along, but was privately glad he’d given the off-campus gathering a wide berth.

Back at the room, John felt ansy, tidying things that really didn’t need to be sorted just to pass the time. He stopped himself before he began indexing his sock drawer. Just for grins though, he opened Sherlock’s drawers to admire the neat way he had everything stacked. Of course Sherlock chose that moment to breeze in.

John froze. Sherlock narrowed his eyes to fix him in a blue laser-point stare.

“What are you doing with my things?”

“Oh, God. Sorry, sorry. I was just cleaning. I thought I’d see how you had your socks stacked.” John waved helplessly toward the open drawer of Sherlock’s pants rolled and laid out in straight rows. “Inspiration.”

Sherlock raised one posh eyebrow.

“I didn’t mean to pry.” John slammed the drawer closed with a whump, knowing his face was turning red.

“If you do something to my things, you know I can retaliate . . .” Sherlock trailed off as his gaze landed on his desk.

He crossed the room in a few strides to inspect the tower of boxes set beside his books.

“What’s all this?” He moved the top bag with the wrapped sandwiches aside to peer at the box of muffins and the croissants underneath.

“I thought you might have missed dinner, seeing how busy you’ve been lately.”

“Oh.” Sherlock frowned, seeming for once at a loss for words.

“I wasn’t sure what you liked so I got several things.”

“Aren’t the muffins generally sold in groups of six?” Sherlock held up the pack containing five.

“Yeah, sorry I got hungry on the way home.” John wasn’t sure if it was possible for his face to grow any hotter.

“Care for another?”

“Only if you’re having one.” 

“Fair enough.”

Sherlock took his desk chair while John sat tailor fashion on the end of the bed as they companionably ate their way through several chocolate chip muffins.

“There should be a juice in there.”

Sherlock peered into the bag of sandwiches and pulled out the Orangina inside.

“Oh, I like this kind.”

“Good, I’ll remember that.” John smiled.

They spoke at once then . . .

“John, I think you should know . . .”

“I’m sorry about last night at the pub . . .”

John chuckled. Sherlock waved him on to speak first.

“I just wanted to say, I’m sorry about how things went at the pub the other night. I know it was a bit. . . erm, crowded, noisy. I wasn’t sure if that put you off.” John looked earnestly over at his roommate. “Everyone missed you.”

In point of fact, only Irene has commented on Sherlock’s absence as John obsessively watched the door, but he didn’t need to get in to all that.

“I realized I had some pressing matters to take care of last night.” Sherlock’s diction grew more grouse-hunt-and-port-with-the-gents as he continued. “Unfortunately I was unable to attend.”

“Oh, because I thought I saw you for a min . . .”

“You were mistaken,” Sherlock clipped. “John, I want you to know that while I appreciate the gesture,” he motioned to the food, “I need to make it clear that I am not interested in relationships of any sort. I don’t have the time for such nonsense.”

“Not even friends?” John asked.

“I don’t have friends,” Sherlock sneered.

“Okay, fine. Look, I get it.” John massaged the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. “I won’t take up any more of your time.”

“Thank you.” Sherlock moved to flip open his laptop.

John grabbed his things for the bathroom and stomped off to take a shower. Sherlock moved to the loo shortly after his return. John was in bed curled on his side, covers over his head when Sherlock reappeared. He tried not to listen to his roommate’s every sound as he moved about the room. Eventually the lights turned out and the mattress shifted as Sherlock crawled onto his side of the bed. John tried very had to pretend he was already asleep.

“John?” A tentative voice came from the dark.

“Hmm?” John continued to maintain the illusion that if he was not already deep in slumber, he was close to it.

“I believe I was a bit rude earlier. I’m sorry. Thank you for the food. I was hungrier than I thought.”

“Oh, yeah.” John rolled onto his back. “No worries. Glad you liked it.”

“It was . . . good.”

“Thanks.” John smiled.

“Good night.”

“Night.”

  
~@~

 

John wasn’t overly surprised that Sherlock didn’t make an appearance in organic chem. Molly slipped back into her usual seat when the poncy git didn’t surface. John propped his chin over his fist and tried to concentrate on covalent bonds. He’d woken up that morning sleeping on his stomach with Sherlock sprawled half over his back. God, he would have happily stayed there all day pretending to be a pillow if his cursed alarm hadn’t beeped, and caused Sherlock to pop up and rush off for the loo.

John sighed, and tried to concentrate on the words the professor was scribbling across the board.

_Covalently bonded compounds have strong internal bonds but weak attractive forces between molecules._

“So, where’s our resident genius today?” Irene asked John at the end of class, one sleek eyebrow raised.

“Bloody hell, Irene, I don’t know.” John slammed his notebook closed with a bit more force than necessary. “I’m not Sherlock’s keeper.”

“I told you. He never comes to class,” Molly said, shrugging. “He’ll still ace the exams.”

“Well, I hope we’ll see him at study group. Mention that when you see him, if it’s not too much trouble.” Irene flicked a glance at John as she closed the top of her bag.

Sherlock hadn’t shown up to their last meeting, and they’d sorely missed his presence.

“We need him, John. Get him in one way or the other!” Mike craned his head around Molly.

“You know he does what he wants, don’t you?” John huffed. “He’s like a big  . . . cat.”

“Molly I thought you were able to twist his arm . . .sharing your supplies in lab class?”

“Well, that only worked once.” Molly shrugged. “He’s got his own things now, and besides, Professor Caldwell relented and he’s got full access to the labs again.”

“Well, it’s up to you, John. You need to sweet talk him.” Irene purred.

John blew out a rude noise. “Sweet talk him yourself, Irene.”

“Oh, honey, I don’t think I’ve got the right equipment for that,” Irene’s laugh tinkled around them.

“Your equipment works for me,” Gwen smiled, standing nearby with her bag.

“Of course it works on you, darling.” Irene made a moue as she reached out to pat her girlfriend’s arse.

“Well, it's been fun, but I need to get to my next class.” John swung his rucksack over his shoulder. “Cheers, all.”

“Bye, John!”

“See ya, mate.”

 

~@~

 

Football practice was brutal that afternoon. Coach Reynolds had them running laps about the gym, and then practicing some new plays until they were all bending over to catch their breath, wiping the streams of sweat away.

“Alright you lot, no complaining,” Coach barked as they finished practice with a set of push-ups and crunches. “Just because we won ONE game doesn’t mean we go all soft!”

“Fuck, I think he’s trying to kill us,” Sadiq whispered as he collapsed back on the gym floor.

“Naw, that would be too easy.” John managed a smile. “We’d get out of sit-ups if we died.”

Everyone bounded off for the locker room once Coach released them, thankful to get away. John’s ankle was bothering him again, and he took a few extra minutes to stretch before going to get changed.

“Hey, Watson!” Coach Reynolds stuck his head back in the door from the hallway.

“Yes, sir?” John straightened up.

“I need this dropped off at the Phys Ed office. Run it over, would you, lad?” He held out a large envelope.

“Of course.” John jogged over to accept it.

The offices were on the other end of the athletic building, and John made his way through the many corridors that connected through. It wasn’t a section of the center that he usually frequented. His head turned as he heard a sultry pop tune coming from one of the rooms as he passed. It looked like a dance studio, and he glanced idly in the window on the door. The sight within stopped him in his tracks. Almost in a trance, John moved forward to stare inside.

A dark-haired man in body-hugging tan tights, and a loose pink sleeveless top, whirled about the room. He leapt up, suspended in mid-air for just a moment before touching back down to earth on one elegant foot. He pivoted gracefully before springing off in another direction, his long limbs bisecting the space in arcs and circles as he spun and dipped, launched and recovered.

He paused, head thrown back, arms straining toward the ceiling, almost in entreaty, almost in prayer. His moves were so classic, so elegant, he was nearly feminine in appearance, yet by the hard sinews and muscles covering the angular body, it was very, very evident that he was all male.

Breath temporarily regained, the dancer jumped again, flinging himself recklessly into space only to collapse down, prostrating himself, face down across the floor. With no seeming effort, he flipped onto his back, and half rose, undulating his body, chest to belly to pelvis, surging up from the ground in waves.

It was frankly the most erotic thing John had ever seen in his life. It was as if his deepest, more heartfelt fantasies had been called up from his psyche, spun from the dark cover of night, and knit into flesh before his very eyes. John might have squeaked or said nothing at all as he moved closer to the window.

The dancer pulled upright onto his knees, and folded back, his head dropping behind him, revealing the long column of his pale throat as corded arms reached up, stretching, grasping, a desperate yearning being telegraphed with every fiber of his being.

God, he was so gorgeous, John felt like crying. He pressed fingertips against the narrow window, wanting to touch, wanting to know.

The dancer whirled back to his feet and leapt toward the front of the room, finally giving a good view of his face, and John nearly choked.

_Fuck, it was Sherlock._

The man glanced up and saw John at nearly the same moment.  He faltered, the beautiful rhythm of the dance lost as he stuttered to a halt. Sherlock’s chest heaved as the hauntingly lovely music continued to flow over the room.  The expression on his face was one of horrified shock. John couldn’t bear that look on this angelic vision of a man one second longer. He fumbled the doorknob open and stepped into the room.

“Oh my God, Sherlock, that was incredible!”

“John.” Something softer stole over his perfect face.

“I had no idea you could dance like that.” John could hardly form words to express the chasm of longing that Sherlock’s dance had opened in his chest. He could hardly breathe for the ache of it.

“I don’t dance seriously anymore,” Sherlock waved one long, beautiful hand through the air, “but it’s still a good way to exercise, blow off some steam.”

“Wow. That was . . . wow.” John had to sit down. He simply didn’t think his legs would support him any longer. Thankfully he found a bench, and sank gratefully on to it.

“Thank you.” Sherlock dropped his eyes to the ground. He might have blushed, but he had such high color already over his face, it was hard to tell.

Sherlock moved to turn off the music, hitting a button on a sound system in the corner. John caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror along one wall, and grimaced. His tee shirt was stuck to his chest, his wrinkled shorts riding up his thighs, and his hair plastered with sweat across his forehead. Sherlock was equally damp, but somehow he managed to look dewy, enticing, his curls an energetic halo around his head. John just felt disgusting.

“What’s that?” Sherlock pointed to the envelope clutched in John’s hand.

“Oh,” John looked down, surprised he was still holding it, “something Coach wanted me to take to the Phys Ed department.”

“Ah, it’s down the corridor on the left.”

“Yeah, great, thanks.”

Sherlock stalked across the length of the room looking like a panther with his muscles long and loose. He bent, scooping up a towel he’d left in a heap and ran it over his face, across the back of his neck under his arms. John swallowed trying not to stare at the full curve of his arse, willing his brain to start working again.

“Dinner?” John blurted.

“Hmmm?”  Sherlock straightened to face him, looping the towel over his neck.

“Have you eaten yet? Everyone will be gathering at Latham hall for dinner fairly soon if you’d like to join in.”

Sherlock bent again to grab a bottle of water, bringing it to his lips. His long throat moved, muscles working as he swallowed.  “I don’t know.” A small frown knit his brows together. “People don’t mind me in study sessions, but they tend to get tired of me in social situations.”

John felt his heart growing heavy. How could this gorgeous, talented man doubt that his company would be worth more than gold?

“Oh come on.” John cleared his throat. “We can talk about covalent bonds over whatever mystery casserole is on tonight. It’ll be a blast.”

“Fine, alright. I need to change.”

“I do too.” John glanced down at his grubby self. “Also I guess I need to turn this in.” He shook the envelope. “Meet you in the lobby in twenty minutes?”

“Yes, okay.”

“See ya in a tick.” John backed out of the room, waving a bit awkwardly as he let the door swing shut behind him. He turned and sprinted down the hall to the department office, slammed the letter down on the desk of the surprised secretary there, and made it a back to the locker room in record time. He had the place to himself. Tearing off his kit, he took the world’s quickest shower, scrubbing his groin and pits as fast as he could. After a cursory swipe with a towel, he threw on his clothes, struggling into his jeans and tee and jumper while still slightly damp. He was finger combing his hair back as he neared the lobby.

Sherlock had changed back into one of his usual stunning, fitted trousers and button-up shirts. He’d obviously tried to tame his hair a bit, but it still looked charmingly wild. He’d not had a chance to shower like John, but he’d obviously applied some kind of deodorant with a pleasant woodsy smell. He looked good enough to eat.

“Hey!” John called as he neared. “Shall we?” He motioned to the door.

“Of course.”

They fell into step on the route back to the dining hall, Sherlock obviously pacing his long stride to more evenly match John’s shorter legs. John tried not to let the sudden wave of shyness overwhelm him, but he couldn’t think of a single witty thing to say. It was no matter, Sherlock seemed disinclined to talk, and they simply settled into a comfortable silence as they walked along.

John felt a burst of pride when his friends welcomed Sherlock in, making a space for him at the table. He grew a bit nervous, thinking about how Sherlock COULD make some rather acerbic comments at times, but Molly got Sherlock talking about some project in their lab class, and soon the conversation was flowing effortlessly around the group. John was free to enjoy his baked fish of the week, mash, and creamed green veg, and watch how Sherlock moved his hands in the air as he spoke. It made John think again about the extraordinary performance he’d stumbled on that evening, and he had to duck his head to hide his blush.

“So, are you two getting along any better?” Irene leaned in closer to nudge John. “It looks like you are.”

“Yeah, I hope so.” John chanced a smile.

“Good, did you mention the study group to his majesty?”

“Oh no, I didn’t get a chance . . .”

“SHERLOCK, you big wanker, you’re supposed to be helping us pass bloody organic chemistry.” Irene reached across the table to smack Sherlock on the back of the head. “You missed the last study session. Can we expect your august presence at the NEXT one?”

“Ouch!” Sherlock glared at her. “I don’t know. What’s in it for me?”

“What do you want? I know a friend working on his massage license. He could practice on you for free. Hand-made biscuits? Or perhaps you can just come and sit next to John? He’s a pretty good reason to come to study group. Hmmm?”

Sherlock flushed across his cheeks.

“Hey, hand-made biscuits sound good, who’s making them?”  Mike looked around expectantly.

“Probably me.” Gwen laughed. “Irene is rubbish in the kitchen.”

“I am NOT rubbish in the kitchen. I just don’t care to waste time on all that fiddly business with making food. It’s tiresome.” Irene affected a yawn. “Why bother when you can order out so easily?”

The conversation turned to the best take-out pizza in the area with a heated debate on whether pineapple was allowed on pizza or was utter heresy.

John nudged Sherlock.

“Hey, you don’t have to come to the study group unless you want to,” John spoke quietly, “but we’d really appreciate it if you could make it.”

“I’ll check my schedule.” Sherlock nodded. “It’s possible I’ll have time.”

“Good.” John smiled.

The dinner tasted better than usual, and John enjoyed walking back to the room beside Sherlock even if they didn’t have much to say, simply falling in to step again.  Sherlock left for a shower, and John busied himself with reading a book he needed to complete for his composition class. Sherlock reappeared in a set of blue pyjamas, his hair slicked back, and John nodded silently, the two of them falling in to their usual rhythms of the evening. Someone was obviously practicing a primal scream out a window on another floor. They ignored it and got ready for bed.

“Good night,” John said into the dark as Sherlock scooted down under the duvet beside him.

“Good night,” Sherlock echoed, rolling on to his side away from John, settling down for sleep.

Images of a gorgeous, fey creature dancing around as if he were nearly weightless played itself over the back of John’s eyelids, but he tamped the visions down. If Sherlock didn’t want anything physical between them, it was okay. If he only wanted this tentative whatever it was between them . . . it would be enough for John. He felt honored beyond belief to be sharing a bed with the fantastic man. He turned on to his side, and let slumber creep in.

John woke tangled up with his roommate in the grey light of dawn, Sherlock plastered against him. The man breathed deeply, his face squashed against John’s chest, while John’s leg lay pushed between Sherlock’s long, lean thighs. _Oh._ It seemed they had both rolled to meet in the middle during the night. John didn’t want to move a muscle lest he wake the still-sleeping man. It felt like liquid sunshine flowing over him wherever they touched. God. John chanced a deeper breath. He wanted to bottle “fragrance of Sherlock” and carry it around in his backpack for whenever he needed a hit.  He let himself simply enjoy the comfort of the man against him when he realized something was growing between them, and it wasn’t on his side of the equation. He could feel the rod of steel pressing into his thigh. Heat pooled low in his belly as his own cock filled in sympathy. _Oh . . . well then._

“Mmm.” Sherlock rocked forward.

Fire shot through John’s veins as Sherlock scooted even closer. _Oh God, oh God, oh God_.

This couldn’t be happening. Sherlock didn’t even seem aware of what he was doing. He was still asleep when he fumbled out to grab John’s hip, dragging him in to slot against Sherlock’s body.

_Fuck, fuck . . . fuuuuck._

When their cocks slid side by side, the heat palpable even through layers of cotton between, John bit his lip, stifling a cry.

Sherlock moaned softly, rutting against him, setting up a messy rhythm.

 John wanted to resist, wanted to wake his roommate, but those sensible thoughts were soon lost in a rushing tide of hormones. He let his hand slip down to grip a glorious handful of that plush arse.

_Oh, oh, ooooh._

 John let his body grind into the drugging warmth pressing in against him, undulating together, his face hot against Sherlock’s shoulder as they rode the gathering storm.

_God, yes, he was almost there  . . ._

“Uuuuh, Gaawd,” John groaned, breathless.

“John?” Sherlock blinked his eyes open, movement suddenly freezing.

_Oh no, no, no . . ._

“Yeah, what . . .” John managed to gasp, his cock throbbing between his legs, his whole system aching for the direction they were obviously speeding toward.

Sherlock pushed back looking confused, panicked.

“No, it’s okay, it’s fine,” John hastened to tell him, reaching out to pat at his shoulder.

Without a word, Sherlock wrenched away, whipping out of the bed to grab his dressing gown and storm out of the room.

“Oh, God.” John sank back into the pillows grinding the heels of his palms into his eyes. He took a deep breath willing his pulse to settle. _God, now what was he meant to do?_  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's epic dance routine is based loosely off of a video going around featuring Sergei Polunin dancing to "Take Me to Church" by Hozier. It is a thing of beauty and many people tagged it right off as "balletlock" as it made the rounds on Tumblr. 
> 
> Go watch it here if you'd like to be utterly blown away - [Sergei Polunin dances](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c-tW0CkvdDI).


	8. Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry if anyone was hoping for some resolution with this chapter. Just a _bit_ more sad pining and tension to wade through! Hope folks enjoy the sweet pain . . .

 ~@~

 

John puffed out a breath of air and craned his neck around the room. It was test day. Sherlock had to come to class if he wanted to pass organic chemistry.

“Alright, mates, into the breach!” Mike joked as he lined up a set of pencils and rubbers on the desktop in front of him.

Everyone seemed equipped with similar supplies, and massive take-away cups of caffeinated beverages by their elbows – ammunition for battle.

Sherlock HAD come to the study session in the library the night before, breezing in to spout off all he knew about rearrangement reactions and the Hoffman elimination. Irene had gotten so frustrated, she’d thrown her textbook across the table at the wall. After calling them all idiots minutes before, Sherlock had turned instantly contrite, telling Irene she simply wasn’t approaching the material in the right way. He started again, slower, explaining things differently until everyone was nodding.

Sadly, he’d avoided John’s eye all night, and when John asked if he were headed back to the dorm afterwards, Sherlock had mumbled something about an experiment in the lab and hurried off.

 “I’m so nervous,” Molly said. “I wish it didn’t make me so nervous.”

“Ah, well there’s always food service jobs if we can’t pass orgo.” Irene grimaced, sliding her bag under her chair.

“Positive attitude,” John said to Irene. “It’s best to keep a positive attitude.

“I’m positive this is going to be a fecking bitch,” Gwen said from the other side of her girlfriend.

John had hardly seen Sherlock all week. He mourned the fact that he didn’t have a lab class for autumn term as Sherlock seemed to be living in the student labs now. They’d lost their carefully gained truce, and Sherlock no longer came to bed in the evenings. John suspected he was napping during the day again.

John bit his lip, glaring at the door of the classroom, willing a tall curly-haired git to appear. At the last possible moment, the door swung open, and Sherlock swanned in to take a seat in the back.  John sighed, relieved to see him as the professor called the class to order. John watched with some trepidation as Professor Caldwell began passing out the exam packets that would either keep him in pre-med or seal his doom.

“Alright everyone, you’ve got two hours. Please begin.”

Of course Sherlock was one of the first to finish, looking elegant as he stalked up to the front of the room to drop his exam on the professor’s desk. He had on dark jeans that did magnificent things for his arse, and a crisp, white button up shirt rolled neatly to his elbows. 

John knew now that he had a dry cleaners in town do most of his laundry, delivering it to the dorm on Thursdays. John tried to not to stare. He couldn’t help envisioning an overlay of the man in his tights, moving across a room, the well-developed muscles of his thighs flexing as he leapt . . .

Sherlock walked past John’s row without glancing his way.

John sighed and struggled to turn his attention back to his paper. It was in large part due to Sherlock’s tutoring that he even understood half this stuff. John knew he was obviously not one of the lucky few who had a natural affinity for organic chemistry. Sherlock certainly was though. God, the man could whip his way through oxidation-reduction reaction diagrams like nobody’s business. It was brilliant, simply stunning how fast his mind worked, John loved watching him in action. John loved . . . It suddenly occurred to John with all the subtlety of an afternoon freight train that he was madly in love with Sherlock Holmes. Arse over tit. Up to his eyeballs. Utterly gobsmacked. _Christ._

John dropped his mechanical pencil to the floor with a clatter. A few nearby people shot him a dirty look as he scooted his chair back to retrieve it. Molly sent him a questioning smile as he straightened up. John nodded with more reassurance than he felt.

“You should be past the half way mark by now,” the teacher chimed from the front. “One more hour left to go on your exams.”

A murmur of dismay rippled through the room. _Shit_. John hunched down over his pages, determined to do his best to finish. When he did turn the exam in, he was reasonably assured it was at least a passing grade . . . he hoped.

“Did you get the extra credit questions?” Molly asked, looking about anxiously when they all stood outside.

“God, I wasn’t sure at all, but I tried.” Mike groaned. “I need at least a B on this.”

“That was bloody awful. I need a coffee.” Irene declared, popping on her over-sized sunglasses on despite the cloud cover outside.

“Me too. A triple caramel latte, at least!” Gwen added.

“Well, have fun,” John said. “I’ve a maths exam in just a few minutes.”

“Yeah, I have one in microbiology.” Molly sighed.

“Well, let’s go.” John waved good-bye to the others as he and Molly set off.

“Want to meet for lunch after?” John paused under the stone walkway where they needed to part ways.

He found himself nearly bowled over into the bushes when a heavy-set bloke with an oversized backpack clipped him rushing past.

“Hey, excuse you!” John bristled.

“Sorry, mate,” the man muttered over his shoulder and hurried on.

_God, tensions ran high during exams time._

“Are you alright,” Molly put out a soothing hand.

“Yeah, fine, fine,” John brushed a stray leaf off his jacket.

“Sure, lunch after sounds good. I should be ready to eat something by then.” Molly gripped the strap of her bag tightly. “I was too nervous for anything but tea this morning.”

“Alright, good luck, then!”

“You too, John.”

John took his place in his maths class. He rotated his neck around his shoulders, and cracked his knuckles, determined to do his best. His shoulders felt loads lighter when he turned in his exam, and he stepped out of the classroom for some temporary freedom.

John dug out his phone to text Molly. There was a smaller cafeteria tucked away in the Asian Studies building that Molly liked. It specialized in vegetarian offerings she said, if John was in the mood for curry. John agreed, texted yes, and shoved his phone away to make the trek over to meet her. 

"John, hey!" Molly called him over when he reached the lobby.

They joined the queue for lunch, grabbing trays to move past the food bars, and swiping their dining cards to pay when they were loaded up. John collapsed onto his chair once they found a free spot to sit, looking briefly about. The walls were painted a pale green, covered in pictures of bamboo and pandas, and the subtle sounds of airy flute music played in the background. It was a bit naff, really.

“God, Mols, I hate exams week.” John scooped up a big mouthful of curry.

“Oh, I know. I think I did alright in biochem. I just have my genetics class to do tomorrow, and then I have a bit of a breather for awhile.” Molly dipped her spoon into her lentil soup.

“Yeah, I’ve got a big paper left to do for English, “ _An Analysis of the Concept of Romanticism in Literature of Europe_ – God, just shoot me now.” 

“Speaking of romance,” Molly smiled, “I wondered if anything was up with you and Sherlock?”

“How do you mean?” John froze, his fork halfway to his mouth.

“Oh, I just wondered if things were okay.” She waved a hand. “You know since you two started going out?”

“Molly, we aren’t going out.” John set his fork back down. “Sherlock’s . . . not into relationships.”

“Oh, I thought you two were together.” Molly frowned.

“Yeah, I know. I can see how it might look that way. I mean we are rooming together . . . and with the bed and all.” John shrugged, and grabbed his fork to continue eating. “I mean honestly when you keep waking up with someone half on top of you, you start to think, well, there must be something there, but he’s just not like that . . .” John stopped when he realized what he’d said aloud.

“John, do you still have the double bed in your room?” Molly’s eyes widened.

“God.” John raked his hand back through his hair. “I called so many times about getting it taken out, and then I didn’t want them to take it away, and stopped calling. Now . . . I just don’t know anymore.”

“Really?” Molly bit down on the side of a potato pancake, a twinkle in her eyes. “Tell me more about the double bed . . .”

“Ugh, I am so screwed.” John raised sad eyes Molly’s way. “I really like Sherlock . . .  but he just doesn’t _do_ relationships. Or maybe he just doesn’t like me. I dunno.”

Molly smothered a giggle with her hand.

“I don’t think it’s funny . . .” John sat up straighter, feeling hurt.

“Oh, John, I’m sorry,” Molly waved him back down. “It’s just, Sherlock. He’s been mooning around the labs all week, acting odd. I saw him doodling your name on his lab notes, he tried to hide it when I walked by, but I saw it anyway. Then just the other day, he grilled me on the appropriate ways to show affection in a relationship and what sorts of gifts and gestures were appropriate. I finally told him to go do some research online. I thought maybe you had a ‘one month’ anniversary coming up or something.”

“No, God, no. I . . .” John was at a loss for words.

“Oh, maybe it was meant to be a surprise.” Molly pressed her lips together. “Maybe he’s looking for the perfect thing to  . . . I don’t know . . . declare himself?”

“Yeah.” John blew out a breath. “If anyone could make a big production out of _hey, by the way, I fancy you,_ it would be Sherlock.”

John grinned and made short work of his curry and rice before starting on his mango pudding. It felt like the sun had broken through the clouds though it remained overcast through the windows. He cheerfully listened to the things Molly thought she’d gotten wrong on the orgo exam before they had to part ways for their afternoon things.

“John, you won’t tell Sherlock I told you, will you?” Molly touched John’s arm. “When he comes up with his big surprise?”

“No, of course not. Won’t breath a word,” John promised. “See ya later!”

He waved good-bye to Molly and whistled all the way to the library before heading out to footie practice. Wherever he went, John felt as though he were walking on air, his feet barely skimming the surface of the earth.

Practice went exceptionally well. They were outside on the pitch that day, and John was on fire, grabbing the ball, dodging the other blokes, streaking across the grass. Just for a laugh, he made a goal from the middle of the field.

“Way to go, John!”

“Focking hell, Watson!”

“I want whatever he’s having.”

“Excellent work, Watson!” Coach clapped him on the back at the end of practice. “That’s the sort of spirit I want to see next game!”

John felt as though he were glowing on his way back to the room. He couldn’t stop the pounding of his heart when he unlocked his door, and stepped inside to find Sherlock hunched over his laptop at his desk, one leg pulled into his chest, chunky headphones embedded in his hair. 

_God, he’d missed seeing those curls, and the curve of that bony back. Oh, gah, he’d promised Molly he wouldn’t say anything, but still . . ._

John stowed his things, and sat down on the edge of the bed closest to Sherlock.

“Hullo.” John waited for Sherlock to stop pretending he didn’t know that he was there.

It only took a moment before Sherlock tugged off the headphones and uncurled, dropping his leg to better face John.

“John.” Something flickered over that beautiful face as his eyes darted over John.

“Hey, I wanted to thank for all your help with the orgo, at the study group. I really feel like I had a handle on things thanks to you.”

“Good, I’m glad.” Sherlock looked more nervous than glad. “This brings a point to mind in fact . . .”

“Yeees?” John leaned closer, drawing out the word.

Sherlock took a deep breath.

“As I was able to provide a favor to you, acting as tutor for organic chemistry, I was hoping you might also be able to lend your services for something I require. My cousin Evelyn is getting married next weekend, and I am forced to join the madness as an attendant in the wedding in Northampton. The hotel hosting the event is rated at four stars, has an indoor pool, free wifi, and breakfast provided. I am led to believe that many would consider it quite picturesque, and a suitable spot for a respite from the stresses and demands of university life.”

“Oh, that sounds . . . nice?” John frowned slightly as Sherlock stopped to breathe.

“My mother . . . and other relations are under the misapprehension that I am currently in a relationship with someone. If I show up at said wedding unattached, they will take it upon themselves to begin matching me up with a ‘suitable partner,’ if not at the weekend, then over the following months.”

Sherlock paused, his face smoothing over, looking so regal as he lifted his chin slightly. _Christ, he was a gorgeous thing._

“As you know, I am a scientist. I abhor all sentiment. It is the grit in the instrument, the crack in the high power lens. Relationships are not my area. I am simply incapable of producing the emotions necessary for such an endeavor, and it would detract from the seriousness of my work.”

“Yeah, okay.” John struggled to keep up.

“John, I need someone to come and pose as my partner at this wedding.” Sherlock pressed his lips together. “I wondered if you could pretend to be my boyfriend? It would be a complete sham. You wouldn’t be required to spend any time with me beyond official events. All your expenses would be covered, and as I said, the hotel has many amenities that would offer relaxation. You’d be free to do as you wish, and there would be a number of attractive young ladies in attendance to socialize with. I simply ask that you refrain from actively pulling anyone at the event.”  

“Oh, erm . . . I’ll have to check my schedule.” John rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. He felt as if his head were spinning.

“I’ve already checked, you don’t have a football game on that weekend, and though you would be required to miss classes on Friday, I doubt Professor Caldwell will cover anything I can’t do better in your study group . . . “

“Yeah, no, I’m in,” John said. “I could really use a break away . . . thanks for asking me.”

“Well, there were few options of people to ask, and you already owed me a favor.” Sherlock looked like a cat with his hackles gone up.

“Right, okay.” John nodded. “Yeah, that’s great"

"Good, it's settled then." The tightness around Sherlock's features eased. 

Oh, shit. I don’t have anything to wear though. It's a formal thing, yeah?” 

“If I sent in your measurements, you could have a suit altered to fit you from the same shop where I’ll be picking up my outfit.”

“Erm, yeah, I guess that would work.”

Sherlock bent to rummage in his desk drawer before returning with a small retractable tape measure.

“If you could stand up, please?”

John clambered awkwardly to his feet. He suddenly didn’t know what to do with his hands.

“Alright. Just stand in your normal posture.” Sherlock raked his eyes over John as he circled around him.

“Yeah okay.” John nodded, trying for the life of him to remember what was a normal posture for him.

He could feel the hairs rise on the back of his neck as Sherlock stopped to stand behind him. John waited, breath held, until he felt a slight pressure on his nape as Sherlock pressed the end of the tape there. After a rattling whoosh of the tape unrolling, John could feel, CHRIST, he could feel Sherlock’s hand holding the other end of the tape against the curve of his arse.

John felt the prick of sweat beginning under his arms and across his upper lip. Thankfully Sherlock let the spool of tape rattle closed, and moved to run it somewhere less bothersome next, measuring the length of John's arm from his shoulder down to his wrist.

“Alright, arms lifted please.” Sherlock’s voice was cool, brisk even, as he stepped back.

John swallowed, and dutifully raised both arms above his head.

“No, no. You’re not doing calisthenics,” Sherlock snapped. “Like this.” He raised his arms gently out at his sides to demonstrate.

“Alright, Mr. Savile Row.” John frowned, copying him. “Not like I go to a bloody tailor every week.”

“Thank you.” Sherlock cocked an eyebrow, and moved closer to loop the tape around John’s chest.  John caught a passing whiff of that coconut and musk smell that seemed to follow Sherlock around wherever he went, and had to close his eyes for just a moment.

“Arms down, please.”

John complied, and felt Sherlock pulling the tape tight around his pectorals. John could almost feel the heat from Sherlock’s body as he hovered nearby, a charged layer of air sparkling between them. Sherlock slid the tape down, and repeated it all for his waist. John swallowed as quietly as he could. Thankfully Sherlock moved away then, kneeling to run the tape down the side of his leg, and John could get a clear breath of air that didn’t include a party on a tropical island. When Sherlock shuffled on his knees to face John, he felt a small frisson of equal parts thrill and dread race over him.

“Just getting the inseam,” Sherlock muttered, reaching up to secure the tape end at the crease of John’s inner thigh.

It was inevitable that Sherlock would touch something sensitive down there. John tried to steel himself, prepare, but when the back of Sherlock’s hand brushed against his balls, shifting him slightly up and aside, it felt like lightning had just run through him. John bit his lip and tried to stifle the small noise at the back of his throat.

“Uuh, ticklish,” John gritted out.

“Sorry, won’t be a moment.” Sherlock might have blushed slightly, but he ducked his head to concentrate on the end of the tape at John’s ankle, and all he could see was a dark head of curls bent before his groin. It was quite a nice sight actually, and though their position was purely innocuous in nature,  John’s limbic system didn’t give a toss. He could feel himself growing hard.

As soon as Sherlock had shifted back and risen to his feet, John popped over to his wardrobe to pull out his things for the bathroom.

“Well, I’m just off for a shower,” John trilled. “Long practice.”

“I thought you just had a shower.” Sherlock frowned. “You smell of soa . . .”

“Well, maybe I fancy another.” John gripped his towel before him, and all but fled the room for the loo.

He braced both palms on the wall in the shower, letting the hot water sluice down over his bent head, neck and shoulders.

God, he could do this. If this was the only way Sherlock wanted him, if a sham boyfriend was the only sort of relationship he could handle, John would be his man. Gladly. It would be okay, except for . . .

John glanced down at the erection still jutting proudly between his legs. It wasn’t going down. With a sigh, he stepped out of the stream of water, filled his palm with hair conditioner and grasped his hot length. God. He didn’t mean to think of long elegant fingers or a dark head of curls but the images came unbidden as he stroked himself, only a few passes, quick and rough. With a grunt he closed his eyes as fire shimmered over him.

John had reassembled himself to something appearing normal when he breezed back into the room, wearing flannel pj bottoms and an old tee.

Sherlock nodded and left quickly thereafter, gripping his own poncy bag for the bathroom. When he returned, hair obviously blown-dry after a shower, they read for awhile, John at his usual place propped against the headboard on the bed, and Sherlock at his desk. At some unknown signal, a shifting, a too-long yawn perhaps, they put things away, turned down the covers, and shut off the lights.

John stretched out under the duvet, keeping a careful strip of space between himself and Sherlock on the mattress, no man’s land. He settled back on the pillow, willing his heart and mind to settle. It didn’t help matters that his damn cock, despite having gone off once already, gave a half-hearted twitch at sensing Sherlock’s proximity.

_For fuck’s sake._

“John?” A velvety baritone rolled in from the nearby pillow.

“Yeah?” John struggled to keep his voice normal.

“Thank you, really . . . I appreciate your coming to the wedding. I know this is above and beyond anything I’ve done for you . . .”

“Hey, no worries. It’s what mates do for each other, yeah? Help each other out?”

“Oh.” Sherlock was silent for a moment. “Yes, I suppose so.”

A silence thick, and heavy as molasses seemed to settle over John. He wanted to say something else. The words were nearly on the tip of his tongue. He wanted to reach out to Sherlock, curl his fingers across the veritable chasm separating them on the bed and touch, but it was too much. Sherlock so obviously didn’t want  . . . all that business. John sighed. He tamped down the things Sherlock didn’t want to hear from him, and rolled onto his side away from the gorgeous, bewitching man. He willed himself to at least lay quiet and still if sleep wasn’t forthcoming.

“Good night, John.”

“Night, Sherlock.”

John must have drifted off as he woke to the bleep of his bloody alarm. Sherlock was soft and warm sprawled beside him, but sadly not touching, just a nearby presence, a tousle of inky curls above the duvet. John let himself breathe in a cloud of Sherlock before rolling out to silence the noise.

“Good morning,” John said, sitting on the edge of the mattress, hands braced on his thighs, not looking backwards.

“Uuummph.” A muffled deep sound that might have meant anything rumbled behind him.

John smiled wryly, and pushed himself to standing to start his day. On the way to history class, John pulled out his mobile and dialed a familiar number once again. He was almost surprised when an actual human answered the call.

“Residential Services, Marjorie speaking.”

“Yeah, hello this is John Watson. I’ve called before about the double bed in 221 at Baker Hall? There are two of us in the room. We NEED two beds.”

“Oh, well, that’s not right. Let me just check my computer.” After a few moments, the woman returned. “That’s strange I see a ticket filled out for that request, but it was marked as completed.”

“Well, it certainly wasn’t completed. We still have a sodding double bed in our room.”

“I’m sorry, this is inexcusable. I’ll have a new order put in right away.”

“Thank you so much,” John said.

When all had been sorted, John rang off, feeling deeply unsettled as he hurried to make it to class before he was tardy.

~@~


	9. Nine

 

~@~

 

“So your parents, erm, they know then . . .” John trailed off, catching himself as the train jostled its way out of the station.

“Know what, John?” Sherlock stopped rummaging through the bag on the seat beside him to fix John in a focused stare.

“Well, about me . . . coming with you to the wedding,” John finished lamely, waving a hand between them.

“It would hardly further my clever plan to keep my matchmaking relatives at bay if they didn’t know I was bringing a date.” Sherlock returned his attention to searching through his luggage.

“Well, yeah, right. But they know you’re bringing a  . . . bloke. They know you’re gay?”

“I’m not gay.” Sherlock leaned in to better fish around at the bottom of his bag. “At least not strictly speaking.”

“Oh, okay . . .” John frowned.

“I am somewhere on the asexual spectrum. Aha.” Sherlock managed to extricate a tablet that John hadn’t seen him with before. “I think ‘demisexual’ might best describe my situation. If I do experience attraction, the male gender is the most likely instigator.”

“Oh, so you’ve had boyfriends before.”

“Not as such.” Sherlock flushed just a bit over his cheekbones.

“Okay.”

“Just to let you know, though, Mummy might call you ‘Victor’ when she first meets you.”

“Victor?” John frowned. “And why is that?”

 “My mother and Aunt Lily were intent on setting me up with someone this past year.  I had to create a boyfriend out of whole cloth to find a moment’s peace.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I told them I was going out with someone called Victor Trevor.”

“Really? What did you say about him?”

“I told them we’d met at a computer camp I attended two summers ago. We’d been keeping a ‘long-distance’ relationship going every since.”

“Interesting. And where is this rival of mine now?”

“John, please.” Sherlock pressed his lips into a wobbly line.

“No, no, if I’m competing with a past ex of yours, I should know something about him.”

“Oh, yes, quite right. Need to coordinate our stories.” Sherlock looked more sure of himself as he sat taller in his seat. “I said he was studying astro-physics at Oxford now.”

“Oh, a smart one. Was he a handsome bloke?”

“Devastating. Quite ripped, actually,” Sherlock said. “He played rugby.”

“My, my, my. Well, I’ve some big shoes to fill then.”  

“Not at all. He was a bit of a bore to be honest. So full of himself.” The corner of Sherlock’s mouth tipped upward.

“Bastard. You’re well shot of him.”

“Indeed.” Sherlock smiled before thumbing on his device.

John pulled out the paperback he’d brought along to read on the train ride, but his gaze kept wandering over to Sherlock, curled up in his seat, studying his device, curls tumbled over his forehead. He never seemed to sit like a normal person, it was either a full sprawl or tucked up into himself like a ball. Finally, John managed to concentrate enough to read a bit of the spy thriller that had looked good at the library when he’d picked it out.

When a woman came by with the drinks trolley, John asked for a tea with milk and a scone. Sherlock got a large tea with four sugars, waving the offer of food away. John insisted on paying, saying it was the least he could do since Sherlock had covered the cost of the train tickets. They were only a stop away from Northampton when it occurred to John there might be more for them to discuss for the weekend.

“So, you know it might help, with verisimilitude, if we knew a bit of background on each other,” John ventured, licking a stray crumb of cinnamon sugar from his thumb.

“Oh, right.” Sherlock scrunched up his nose in thought. “Like what?”

“Well, I dunno, where you grew up, where you went to school, any siblings, favorite telly show . . . that sort of thing.”

“Alright.” Sherlock uncurled, dropping his legs to face John. “Grew up in Sussex, attended Harrow, have a boil of an older brother called Mycroft, and we’ve never owned a television, so I don’t have a favorite programme. And you?”

“Oh, okay. I’m from Aldershot, went to All Hallows Catholic School, have one pain-in-the-arse older sister called Harriet, and I’d say it’s a toss up between “Doctor Who” and “Top Gear.”

“Hmmm.” Sherlock nodded wisely.

“You’re going to Google those shows later, aren’t you?”

“Probably,” Sherlock admitted. “My knowledge of popular culture is regrettably low.”

“So what did you do for fun when you were growing up?”

“Oh I don’t know the usual.” Sherlock shrugged. “I was only home for summers and holidays past age eleven, and we had a villa in Greece for much of that, but I had my chemistry set, books, my violin, there were the gardens around the estate, and of course I had my own laptop . . .”  Sherlock trailed off at the look on John’s face. “What’s wrong?”

“Sherlock.”  John felt a wave of horror rising over him. “I’m not posh enough to come to this wedding, am I?”

“That’s ridiculous.” Sherlock sniffed. “Having money hardly makes you a worthwhile person. Most of my family is dull as dust. You’re much better company.”

“Yeah, alright. But I don’t even own anything that doesn’t have a hole in it somewhere.” John looked ruefully down at the old, striped rugby jersey he'd put on that morning. It had a sizeable tear at the bottom hem.

Sherlock turned to dig through his bag again. He extracted a deep blue jumper that he thrust John’s way.

John took it, mystified. It felt amazingly soft in his hands.

“What's this?”

“A jumper. I bought you a jumper,”  Sherlock mumbled.

“Wow.” John looked at the label, feeling a much warmer tide of emotion wash over him. “Christ, is this cashmere? How much did you spend on this?”

“It hardly matters.” Sherlock waved his concerns away. “Consider it payment for the pain and suffering of spending the weekend with my horrible family. Besides, it’s something boyfriends might do, yes? Give small gifts? It adds verisimilitude to things, as you say.”

“Okay, thanks. This is amazing.”

John immediately stood to tug his shirt over his head, catching the bottom of his ratty white vest underneath when it tried to travel along. He pulled on the new meltingly-soft, warm jumper, tugging it down over his hips. It fit wonderfully well.

“Well, this is brilliant, really thank you,” John said, taking his seat again.

Sherlock stared off into middle distance as if he were a million miles away. He blinked a few times before focusing on John again.

“Yes, well, the colour suits you, good.”

“Sooo, I was thinking. Perhaps we should come up with some pet names for each other.”

“Pet names?” Sherlock blinked again.

“Yeah, you know, terms of endearment, nicknames, that sort of thing.” John waved a hand. “ It would make us, you know, being together, seem more real.”

“Yes, okay, what do you suggest?”

“I dunno. Sweetie? Luv? Let’s look up some popular ones.” John pulled his phone out.

“Alright.”

The two connected to the in-train wifi and immediately set about finding something suitable.

 “Baby, darling, honey,” John suggested.

“Poppet, sugar lump, lamb,” Sherlock countered.

“Oh, here’s some good ones,” John chortled, “Love bug, snookums, and sweet cheeks.”

“Ugh.” Sherlock mock shuddered. “Pumpkin, cutie-pie, muffin, If we go with French, they have _Mon Chou_.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Depending on translation it might either be my cabbage or my pastry. So many of these refer to foods. It’s as if you want to _eat_ your beloved. How odd.”

“Okay these aren’t food. Baby-buga-boo, Cheeky chimp, Cuddle bunny.”

“That’s almost worse.”

“Let’s find THE worst one.” John smiled.

“Pookie bear,” Sherlock offered.

“Doodle bug.”

“Snoogypuss.”

“Huggalump.”

 “Shmoopsie Poo,” Sherlock read the words carefully off his screen.

“Oh, God.” John burst out laughing, and Sherlock added in a deep rumbling chuckle of his own.

“That’s simply awful!” John snickered.

“It is, isn’t it?”

“Northampton, our next station will be Northampton,” the voice announced over the tannoy system.

“Well, that’s us, Love Lump. Ready?” Sherlock quirked an eyebrow.

“As ready as I’ll ever be, Cuddle Bear.” John set about packing the things he had out, and gathering his rubbish.

“My parents should be meeting us at the station,” Sherlock said.

“Oh, okay, good. How does my hair look?” John reached up, trying to smooth it down.

“Relax, John. You look fine,” Sherlock rose to slide his suit jacket back on over his pressed shirt.

“Easy for you to say, Posh Boy.” John grumbled.

“John, my parents won’t care that you aren’t from money. My mother was a college professor before she retired to write, and my father repairs clocks. They’re friends with all sorts.” Sherlock zipped his leather bag closed.

“Alright, fine,”  John said, standing to sling his duffle over his shoulder.

Despite Sherlock’s reassurances, and even the fancy new jumper, John still felt something like a small, squat garden gnome next to the tall, elegant poshness beside him. They joined the group queuing out to the platform.

John would have known Sherlock’s parents anywhere, even if the attractive, well-dressed couple hadn’t been moving to greet them, or greet Sherlock rather. They completely ignored John to crowd around their son.

“There’s my darling boy,” Mrs. Holmes said leaning up to kiss Sherlock’s cheek.

“Good trip?” Mr. Holmes asked, patting Sherlock on the back as he attempted to take his case from him.

“Yes, yes, it was fine, don’t fuss so.” Sherlock bristled, trying to fend them off. “Dad, I can carry my own bag.”

“I don’t mind,” the man beamed at him. “Still got a bit of strength left, don’t I?” He mimed pumping a muscle in his arm.

“Alright, you two, come along, let’s not tarry. Lots to do before the rehearsal dinner tonight,” Mrs. Holmes tutted, trying to bat them along. “Lily was just telling me there’s an awful mix up with the bridesmaid’s dresses, they got the wrong color on two of the . . .”

“Yes, hang on, let’s not forget my date .  . .” Sherlock turned, gesturing to John behind him, taking it all in with a grin on his face.

“Good Lord. VICTOR?” Sherlock’s mother’s mouth dropped open.

“Oh my God,” Mr. Holmes said simply, his eyes gone quite round.

“Erm, no. I broke up with Victor, sadly,” Sherlock managed in a pinched voice. “This, however, is John.”

“How do you do? John Watson.” John stepped forward, extending a hand brightly to Mr. Holmes.

“Very well, John, thank you.” Mr. Holmes recovered quickly to grasp his hand. “How nice to meet _you_.”

Mrs. Holmes continued to view them all with a look of utter incredulity pasted across her face.

“Ma’am.” John nodded politely, stepping forward to extend his hand to her as well. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” 

“Oh my God,” She breathed before stepping in to squash John into a tight hug. The wool of her jacket scraped against his cheek as he was enveloped in a cloud of exotic-smelling perfume, something oriental.

“Now, now, Violet, let the boy breathe.”

“Yes, yes, of course.” She stepped back, reaching out to straighten John’s rumpled jumper. “Well, now isn’t that a nice weave. John, did you say it was?”

“Yes, ma’am, John Watson.”

“Well, John, how lovely to meet you.” A sudden sheen made her startlingly blue-eyes almost glow.

“Thank you. It’s lovely to meet you both. I’ve heard so much about you.”

“Well, that’s a bald-faced lie that Sherlock’s talked about us, but so politely done. I think we’ll just have to keep you.” Mrs. Holmes threaded her arm into John’s, urging him along with her.

“No, really. He told me you were a professor who retired to write, but he didn’t tell me what. I’m curious.”

Mrs. Holmes was rendered speechless for a moment as she gaped at Sherlock.

“What? It isn’t a secret, is it?” Sherlock snapped.

“No, no of course not.” Sherlock’s mother turned back to John. “I’m currently co-authoring a book about string theory in layman’s terms with another woman who’s done work in the field of . . .” John listened with half an ear as they exited the station for the car park, straining to follow the rumble of Sherlock’s baritone as it interwove with this father’s higher pitched voice behind them.

“But you don’t want to hear about that nonsense all day, dear, do you?” Mrs. Holmes smiled kindly at John, patting his arm as she released him. “I’ll let you boys have some time together. Here, you can both get in the back.”

They’d stopped beside a nice but older silver BMW. Mr. Holmes clicked the device on his key chain and it beeped in a friendly way as the doors unlocked.

“Here, luggage in the boot." Mr. Holmes reached for their bags.

“Which side do you fancy?” John asked Sherlock, eyeing the posh, leather interior of the car.

“Why don’t you get behind the driver’s side? There’s more leg room for me behind my Mum,” Sherlock said.

“Right-o, my great Giraffe.” John smiled gesturing for Sherlock to proceed him.

Sherlock looked momentarily flustered, then caught himself.

“Of course, my little Prawn Roll,” he said smoothly, bending to climb inside.

“Oi, you’re not calling me short are you?” John got in beside him. “Just because not all of us have legs that go on for a kilometer or two . . .”

“Not at all. I’m quite fond of prawn rolls actually.” Sherlock fought off a smile.

“Oh God.”

“What?”

“Now all I can think about is prawn rolls, you big prat.” John knocked his knee against Sherlock’s. “I’m starving all of a sudden.”

“Well, surely there’s a decent place to get Chinese somewhere in Northampton.”

Mr. and Mrs. Holmes seemed to be taking their time getting into the car.

“Mummy, are there lunch plans?” Sherlock called out through the window.

“What, dear?” She leaned in.

“Lunch? Do we have to be anywhere special? John has a craving for Chinese.”

“Oh, no, that’s sounds fine. I’m sure Daddy can use his GPS to find something.”

Mr. and Mrs. Holmes opened the doors to settle themselves in the front seats.

“No, don’t bother.” Sherlock already had his phone out to scroll through several screens.

“Find one that’s close, won’t you? Daddy and I need to get back to the hotel, and you need to pick up your suit this afternoon.”

“The Mayflower,” Sherlock announced. “Best reviews, only five minutes away.”        

“Sounds good.” Mr. Holmes backed the car out of the space carefully and maneuvered them to the exit. “Which way do I turn?”

The restaurant turned out to be a cozy affair with white fairy lights twinkling around the edges. The place was doing a good business at lunchtime, but they managed to find a table for four after only a short wait.

There was much shuffling, dropping of jackets and scarves over the backs of chairs before a waiter appeared with menus and glasses of water.

“Now, You, nothing with sauce.” Mrs. Holmes patted her husband’s arm. “You know the doctor said you need to be watching your sodium intake.”

“Quite right, quite right,” he muttered, squinting at his menu.

“Oh, you’ve forgotten your reading glasses again, haven’t you. Here, borrow mine.”  She plucked the lurid, purple-colored frames from the top of her head and thrust them at Mr. Holmes. 

“Thanks, Luv.” He smiled fondly at her as he pushed the glasses onto his nose to peer at the menu again. “Ah, there, that’s better.”        

“What are you getting?” John nudged Sherlock.

“Not really hungry.” Sherlock flicked his eyes quickly over the laminated page. “Tea will do.”

“Oh, go on. You like noodles. Get something with noodles, and I’ll get a rice thing and we can share." 

“Alright,” Sherlock shrugged. “And the prawn rolls.”

“Well, of course the prawn rolls.” John scanned the starters section. “That goes without saying.” 

Once the meals had been ordered, and menus bustled away, Mrs. Holmes leaned in, fixing John with a predatory gaze that he wasn’t quite sure he liked.

“So, John, where are you from, and what do your parents do?”

“Mummy, don’t start cross-examining John.” Sherlock shifted forward, meeting his mother’s stare. “His father is in sales, and his mother works as a receptionist at a dental office. He has one older sister currently learning to be a sous chef in London. He grew up in Aldershot where he excelled in squash, football, and graduated with honors. He’s currently dividing his time between studying medicine and playing on the school football team as an attacking midfielder. There. Tea anyone?” Sherlock gestured to the pot that had been deposited at their table.

“Oh, yes, I’ll have some.” Mr. Holmes reached to pour himself a cup.

“How do you know all that? I never said,” John gaped. He was so surprised he forgot to play the doting boyfriend.

“I researched you when you first moved in.” Sherlock dipped his head, looking as if he feared John’s reprisal.

John burst out laughing. “Oh God, you silly thing.”

Sherlock smiled, looking up at John through his lashes.

It made John’s heart skip a beat.

“Moved in?” Mrs. Holmes pounced on Sherlock's stray phrase.

_Oh right, there were other people at the table._

“Yes, we ended up as roommates this term.” John nodded.

“Roommates? I thought Sherlock requested a single this year.” Mrs. Holmes raised her well-sculpted eyebrows in Sherlock’s direction.

“I did. It obviously wasn’t in the cards. Thank goodness, it turned out to be John though. Anyone else would have been horrifying.”  Sherlock mock shuddered.

“Well, it was a bit horrifying at the beginning,” John chuckled, “but we worked it out.”

“So you’re roommates?” Mr. Holmes put down his cup to join the conversation.

“That’s right, and boyfriends.” John reached out to still Sherlock’s hand that was nervously drumming a beat on the tabletop with his own.

He threaded their fingers together. Just the feel of their palms pressing close was a marvelous thing, warming him head to toe. Sherlock smiled gratefully at him. John couldn’t help it. He pulled their combined hands together and dropped a kiss to the back of Sherlock’s beautifully knobby knuckles. Sherlock flushed a lovely pink, and John grinned ear to ear. When John glanced back at the Holmeses, twin pairs of blue eyes were gazing meltingly at them.

 _Oh, shit._ For a moment, John felt a horrible wave of guilt wash over him. He’d let himself get a bit carried away there. Forgot that things were just for show. It suddenly occurred to him that Sherlock’s parents would absolutely _hate_ him when they learned their relationship  was all just an act. Thankfully the waiter arrived just then, bringing appetizers and a much needed interruption.

“Ooh, prawn rolls.” John dropped Sherlock’s hand to rub his palms together. “My favorite!”

John concentrating on not spilling anything  on his new jumper through the meal, and lunch finished without too much bother. It took a half hour ride in the BMW to reach the hotel hosting the wedding. Mrs. Holmes was obviously intent on updating Sherlock on his various relatives, keeping a steady patter going from the front seat while Sherlock pulled faces and rolled his eyes, and John tried valiantly not to laugh.

When they turned down the drive, and the historic inn hoved into view, John found himself questioning his life choices again. It was unbearably posh, a rambling old country estate now converted into a hotel, all warm brick, mullioned windows, and multiple canted roofs. They drove under the branches of a huge oak to reach the entrance.

“Wow.” John looked up and up. “Nice, isn’t it.”

“Probably drafty.” Sherlock tossed a careless hand aside.

“Siger,” Mrs. Holmes poked her husband. “Let me off, and then go park the car. Sherlock, you and John go with your father. Don’t let him carry any luggage.”

“Yes, of course.” Sherlock nodded.

“I can manage a few things,” Mr. Holmes protested, pulling the car alongside the main door.

“No, dear, you don’t want to hurt your back the day before the wedding.”

“Quite right.” He smiled at his wife as she gathered her hand bag.

“See you boys in a moment.” She moved in to drop a quick kiss to her husband’s cheek before getting out of the car.

They watched her striding up the walk, her long pink scarf floating behind her until she’d reached the door, and then Mr. Holmes dutifully moved the car to the rear of the building where the car park lay discreetly tucked away behind some thick hedgerows.

“Ah, well, here we go,” Mr. Holmes said when he finally found a free spot by some trash bins.  

“I like your mum.” John whispered to Sherlock as they slid out of the back seat. 

“Oh, really? She terrifies most people.”

“No, she’s just . . . focused,” John said.

Mr. Holmes unlocked the boot, and they ducked in to grab the bags before he could offer to carry anything and incur the later wrath of Mrs. Holmes.

“Good weather.” Mr. Holmes stood for a moment admiring the blue sky overhead, hands shoved into his pockets. “It’s lucky there’s no rain called for this weekend. They’re having the reception in some tent thingie on the grass.” He waved in the general direction of the grounds. “DJ and everything outside.”

“It sounds ghastly.” Sherlock grimaced, slinging his bag over his shoulder. He leaned in to push the boot closed once John had pulled his duffle free.

“No, no, it’s going to be quite the do. Mycroft should be up by tomorrow morning.”  Mr. Holmes tilted his head slightly.

“Oh, God, not Mycroft,” Sherlock groaned.

“Come now. I want you two to behave. For your mother’s sake if nothing else, please.”

Something occurred to Sherlock as he whirled to face his father.

“Tell Mycroft he’s not allowed to investigate John. I don’t want any security checks run on him. He won’t listen if _I_ tell him.”

“Whoa, why would Mycroft be running security checks on me?” John huffed a laugh.

“He’s with the government.” Sherlock sent John a glance. “He gets overly flush with his power.”

“Oh, alright.” John frowned.

“Please, Dad.” Sherlock looked genuinely worried.

“Of course.” Mr. Holmes patted his son’s shoulder. “I don’t think it will be a problem. John looks like a fine young man, but I’ll tell him.”

“Thank you.” Sherlock’s tense shoulders eased downward.

They found the paved path that led back to the main building lined with small solar lamps that no doubt came on after dusk. Large glass doors led them into a reception area that looked quite a bit more modern than John was expecting after the historic exterior.

Mrs. Holmes was busy talking with a knot of people to the side, another middle aged woman who favored her face shape, and several  younger women in various country tweeds and plaids. Sherlock’s mother broke away when she saw them entering, ushering them over.  

“There you are!” She exclaimed as if they’d been gone for hours and not minutes.

Mrs. Holmes introduced John around quickly. From what he could gather the women included Sherlock’s Aunt Lily, her daughter, Evelyn - the one getting married, a younger sister, and several of her female friends.

Evelyn was a tall, attractive girl with long auburn hair. She exclaimed when she saw Sherlock, grabbing him in a hug that he suffered with some grace, patting her awkwardly on the back until she pulled away.

“Sherlock, are you still exploding science labs?” She grinned.

“Are you still forgetting to wash your glassware?” he countered.

“We’ve interns for that.” She waved a hand.    

“John, this is one of my least annoying cousins, Evelyn. She works in the research department of GlaxoSmithKline.”

“John, how lovely to meet you.” She took John’s hand with obvious pleasure.

“Yes, you as well.” John smiled.

“What about me? Am I one of your least annoying cousins too?” The youngest of the group spoke up, a girl who looked on the verge of puberty with her curly brown hair caught back by a band.

“Livie, of course,” Sherlock replied smoothly. “This is John.”

“It’s Olivia.” The girl solemnly stuck her hand out for John to shake as well. “I’m not going by Livie anymore.”

“Well, Olivia, it’s a pleasure.” John took her hand, bending over it with a slight bow.

“This looks like a beautiful place you’ve chosen for your wedding. I’m chuffed to be included.” John smiled back at Evelyn.

“When Sherlock said he had a plus one, we thought he was pulling our legs.” Evelyn giggled.

“Evelyn!” Mrs. Holmes and her sister exclaimed sharply at the same moment.

“Well, it’s what everyone was say . . .”

“Yes, well. We’re just off for a spa trip,” Aunt Lily interjected with a bright smile. “Getting our nails done and all that. I’m afraid you’ve missed the lads. They’re on some wine tasting outing. They won’t be back until this evening.”

“No, it’s fine. Sherlock still needs to pick up his groomsman's suit.” Mrs. Holmes nodded toward her son.

“Yes, John has a suit on order as well,” Sherlock added.

“Lovely.” Aunt Lily clapped her hands together. “So, we’ll leave you two to get settled.”

“Yes, about that. We’ve an extra suite we don’t need, so you boys are welcome to it,” Mrs. Holmes said.

“Yeah, it’s already paid for, but I’m staying with Mum and Liv tonight while Nathan is with his friends," Evelyn said. "Then tomorrow we’re leaving straightaway after the wedding for the honeymoon. It's a shame to waste it."

“Oh, where are you off to?” Sherlock cocked an eyebrow toward his cousin.

“Spain.” Evelyn grinned. “Nathan is an avid birdwatcher and we’ve a trip planned around Costa de la Luz. There’s an excellent migration to view this time of year.”

“Yes, yes, we can discuss all this later. We don’t want to be late.” Aunt Lily flapped a hand.

“Here you go.” Mrs. Holmes produced a set of keys that she thrust toward Sherlock and John. “It’s on the second floor. Just make sure you’re back by five tonight.” 

“Great, thanks so much.” John took the ring holding several old-fashioned keys, and a plastic tag with the room number stamped across it.

“Now, I’ve emailed you the schedule, and the direction to the tailor's, you have it all?” Sherlock’s mother fixed him with another laser stare.

“Yes, Mummy, of course. I’m not a child.” Sherlock pulled himself straighter.

In a flurry of good-byes, and air kisses, and floral perfume, the women made their farewells, and floated off out the front door.

Mr. Holmes showed them past a large vase holding an artful display of dried branches to the lift.

“Your mother and I are on the first floor,” he told Sherlock. “Just let us know if you need anything, but I was thinking of having a nap. You’ll be alright taking the car to the tailor’s without me?”

“Yes, yes of course.” Sherlock accepted the car keys from his father, secreting them away in a pocket.

Mr. Holmes waved good-bye when the doors opened on his floor. “I’ll see you soon, then.” With a wink, he was off down the hall.

“God, this is exhausting already.” Sherlock closed his eyes to slump against the mirrored wall of the lift when the door closed.

“Steady on,” John said. “No way out but through.”

“What does that mean?” Sherlock opened one eye as he crinkled his nose.

John had the sudden desire to kiss that little wrinkle between his brows. He tamped it ruthlessly down.

“I dunno, something Coach says. I guess it means suck it up, and get on with it.”

“Charming.” Sherlock sighed.

“Oh come on. I’m sure there will be alcohol and food later.”

“No doubt,” Sherlock agreed. “What room are we in?”

“Ah, hang on.” John fumbled the keys back out of his pocket. “202,” he read off the tag.

Sherlock pushed upright as the lift dinged melodically and the door slid back open. They moved down the carpeted hallway, finding the room easily enough. John fit the key into the door, and managed to unlock it with just a bit of a wiggle at the end. John swung the door open for Sherlock and stepped through himself. He dropped his bag to the ground and froze.

The wallpaper was a festive, red rose pattern, a color repeated by the dark, blood-red curtains, and canopy that draped over the large, four-poster bed dominating half of the room. A small box of chocolates, and a bottle of champagne on ice graced a small table by the bed while the rose theme was further pushed by the artful scattering of loose petals in the shape of a heart over the fluffy, snow-white duvet.

“Good Lord,” Sherlock exclaimed looking about. “They’ve given us the bridal suite.”

~@~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I found a really lovely historic hotel converted from an old country manor near Northampton to serve as a model for this wedding location. Called Highgate house, it looked simply perfect. You are welcome to drool over some of the great pics you can view of the site . . . https://www.hitched.co.uk/wedding-venues/highgate-house_2931.htm


	10. Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many thanks to all who have commented, and kudoed, and been so very supportive of this unilock WIP of mine. I so appreciate the company along the journey!
> 
> One request please. While I adore encouragement, I absolutely freeze up at comments like "I NEED MOAR" and "when is the next update?" These sorts of comments make me never want to write again, and take up a quieter hobby like quilting, or gardening, or juggling. I'm sure people mean well, but please, don't. Thanks!  
> +++

_“Good Lord,” Sherlock exclaimed looking about. “They’ve given us the bridal suite.”_

~@~             

“Oh, wow, so it is,” John said, his eyes drawn to the suggestive rose petals left over the bed. The red of the flowers over the white of the duvet was quite striking.

“This is ludicrous. We can ask for something else.” Sherlock hadn’t put his bag down.

“Oh no. Come on, it’s not that bad,” John said, turning to survey the huge flat screen telly opposite the squashy sofa at the end of the bed. “Besides the bed’s even bigger than the one . . .”

John trailed off. He realized he was coming perilously close to discussing things they didn’t talk about. The bed they shared in their dorm room was definitely something they didn’t talk about. John moved instead to poke his head into the adjoining en suite. It was a spacious room containing not only a small glass shower in the corner, but a huge clawfoot bathtub in the center.

“Oh my God. Look at that bath!” John could almost feel the hot water encasing him. He loved a good soak – something he didn’t get to indulge in with the showers in the dorms. He moved to poke at a line of bottles by the sink containing a number of body wash and oils. “We are so keeping this room.”

“Alright, fine,” Sherlock huffed from the doorway. He moved aside to let John pass back into the bedroom. “It’s just so . . . red.” He flapped a hand helplessly.

“Yeah, I know it’s a bit overdone,” John agreed, “but we can move . . . stuff.”

“I suppose.” Sherlock still sounded unsure, drifting behind him.

“Look, I’ll just . .. “ John moved to scoop up the rose petals across the bed, dumping them unceremoniously into a nearby rubbish bin.

“There, see? All better.” John smiled, gesturing toward the new, flowerless bed.

“Yes, that is an improvement.” Sherlock wrinkled his nose.  “Okay. It is a nice room.”

“I wonder if they do room service. We could order chips.”

“John, you just ate.” Sherlock cocked an eyebrow.

“Yeah, but I always wanted to order room service.”

“Well, perhaps we’ll have time later.”

John grabbed a hardbound booklet with the hotel’s name in swirling script over the cover, taking it to the squashy sofa. He flipped through the hotel’s amenities, half-listening to Sherlock unzipping his case, putting things in the wardrobe as the hangers tinkled and shifted.

“They have an exercise room and an indoor heated pool,” John said, marveling at the glossy color photos. “Also 26 acres of grounds attached.”

“Hmmm. So the website enumerated. Perhaps we can view all that later too . . . or you can.” Sherlock moved closer to John. “I have a number of _wedding_ things to do.” Sherlock sighed. “We’d best go to the tailor’s as soon as possible.”

“Oh, right sorry.”  John put down the book.

“I’ll just use the facilities before we go.”

“Yeah, no worries.” John watched the back of Sherlock’s head as he disappeared into the loo, shutting the door firmly behind him.

 

~@~

 

The bell over the tailor’s door chimed as Sherlock walked in first, holding the door open for John to follow.  John glanced about at the various displays of suits in a variety of tasteful dark colors. The place had a polished wood, wool, and old money smell to it.  It was definitely one of those poncy places John wouldn’t bother poking his nose into ordinarily.

“Good afternoon, my name is Reginald. Is there something I can help you with?”

Sherlock stepped up to the young, well-dressed man who had appeared, confidently rattling off his name and information as John hovered nervously a step behind.

“Certainly, sir. You may sit here while we find your suits.” The man gestured toward a set of leather chairs set to the side. “Would either of you care for a cup of tea or coffee while you wait?”

“No, thank you,” Sherlock clipped. “John?” He turned John’s way.

“No, I’m good, thanks.” 

“Very good. I’ll be right back." 

They moved to settle into the chairs as the man slipped into the back of the store.

“He’s from Yorkshire.” Sherlock tipped his head toward the door the clerk had disappeared through.

“What?” John raised his brows. “How can you tell?”

“His accent gives him away.”

“He sounded perfectly RP to me.”

“Exactly. He’s trying too hard. Plus, I could hear the vowel sounds of that area when he said his name. He’s heard it too often in his childhood accent to erase it completely.”

“Wow, that’s brilliant.”  John smiled, leaning in to brace his elbows over his knees. “How do you know all that?”

“A project of mine when I was younger.” Sherlock lifted a shoulder. “I studied all the regional dialects and accents of the UK.”

“Fascinating. Well, you are just a wealth of talents, aren’t you?”

Sherlock ducked his head, trying to hide the flush over his lovely cheekbones.

John wanted to say more. He wanted to tell Sherlock exactly how much he enjoyed every aspect of Sherlock from his astounding prowess with organic chemistry, to his beautiful dancing skills, to his frankly horrible taste in music when the shop employee bustled out with their suits and another older, man in tow.

“Ah, Mr. Holmes. I’m Mr. Stowe,” the older man said. “We spoke on the phone. Why don’t you come this way to try on your suit. Reginald can take care of your friend.”

“Yes, thank you.” Sherlock rolled smoothly to his feet.

They were led to the back of the shop. John watched somewhat sadly as Sherlock continued away down the hall, but allowed Reginald to push a stack of clothing into his arms as he ushered him into a small changing room.

The black trousers fit a dream. So often John had trouble finding things that fit his shorter frame. A white button up shirt had been provided, and it felt like no other shirt that John had ever worn before, thick and silky under his fingertips. John slipped his arms into the sleeves, doing the buttons up almost reverentially. It was gorgeous. John tucked the shirt carefully into his trousers, terrified of wrinkling anything. He pulled the jacket on last, a dark blue and green plaid that settled beautifully across his shoulders. John stood before the full length mirror to admire the full effect. His hair could use a good combing and he couldn’t help noticing a new spot on his chin, but he looked . . . pretty damn good in the new clothes. It made him stand a bit taller.

A discreet knock had John answering the door.

“How does everything feel?” Reginald asked politely. “Does the fit seem right?”

“Good, really good.” John shrugged a few times, swinging his arms to bend them deeply at the elbows. “Yeah good.”

“Do you mind?” The man moved in to tug at John’s suit at a couple of key points, reaching up to smooth the jacket better over his shoulders. “Yes, I think we did an adequate job.”

“More than adequate,” John said. “This is really nice.” He glanced at himself in the mirror, almost surprised by his reflection. Who was that sharp-looking bloke?

“Perhaps you’d like to try on some accessories? Complete the ensemble? A tie? A belt maybe?”

“Oh, yeah, sure.” John nodded. It wouldn’t hurt anything to simply try something on.

Reginald smiled, and set to dressing John as if he were his personal project. By the time he was done, John had on a black tie with small white dots, a new supple leather belt, a green handkerchief for his pocket, and dark socks with a subtle checked pattern. The man even produced a pair of dress shoes that didn’t pinch when John put them on. John wiggled his toes appreciatively, feeling like he’d stepped into a reality show. The New You.

“Why don’t you come out to the larger mirror to see it in full?” His helper ushered John along.

The man nattered on about the quality of the fabric, and how the colors suited John so well. John mumbled a thank you that ground to a halt when they stepped into the larger area, and he beheld the glory of Sherlock Holmes on a slightly-raised platform in a silk waistcoat and tie. He seemed to be checking out how his new pin-striped trousers fit over his arse, craning to look over his shoulder at his reflection in the three-sided mirror behind him. John could have told him he looked perfect. My God, he wanted to write odes to the curve of that arse.

“Oh, John.” Sherlock looked up, startled.

He seemed about to smile, but then froze, his mouth parted slightly as his piercing blue eyes raked over John. It felt something like a cross between standing before an x-ray machine, and being caught in a wind tunnel.

“Does it look alright?” John glanced down at himself, suddenly self-conscious.

“Erm . . . yes. It looks quite . . . good.” Sherlock seemed to be searching his memory for the right word, and giving up for something accessible.

“Well, that looks fantastic to me.” John gestured toward the long, leggy vision that was Sherlock in formal wear.

“Yes, I think that works quite nicely,” Mr. Stowe surveyed Sherlock with a critical eye. “Let’s get the full effect, shall we?” The tailor stepped forward, and helped Sherlock into the long, black jacket.

The dark trousers and jacket over the creamy white shirt and pale waistcoat complimented Sherlock’s own dark curls on snow coloring perfectly. The tails of the long jacket lifted slightly as Sherlock spun about before the mirror.

 _Dramatic Git._ John wanted to grab him and pull him down into kiss him so badly his arms ached.

“I like the fabric.” Sherlock pinched edge of his jacket between two fingers to rub at the lining. “At least Evelyn has good taste in clothing choice.”

“Yeah, wow.” John stepped up to stand beside him on the platform.  They looked quite good together in the mirror, all dressed to the nines. John realized he hadn’t shaved that morning and ran a hand over his chin.

“You can shave before the wedding tomorrow if you like,” Sherlock said, “but I have it on good authority that a bit of scruff is quite in these days.”

“Yeah, alright, thanks, Mr. Fashionista.” John chuckled. “You of course always look good no matter what.”

Sherlock’s breath seemed to catch as he suddenly stilled beside him. The air felt crackly between them. John realized he might have crossed one of those invisible lines. He struggled for something light-hearted and laddish to say.

“I’m sure you’ll have no trouble pulling at the wedding.” John elbowed Sherlock in the side.

“John, since I’ll have you there as my date, I’m sure I don’t need to worry about that.” Sherlock narrowed his eyes slightly.

“Oh right.”

John could feel the tailors who had stepped back discreetly still hovering in the background, listening.

“I just meant, you know,” John dropped his voice. “If you wanted to chat up anyone for real. It’s fine.”  The very idea felt like acid gathering in the pit of his stomach.

“God, no.” Sherlock snorted rudely. “That’s for you to do . . . if you wish. Just don’t bring anyone back to the room.”

“Sheeerlock.” John groaned. “You know I wouldn’t . . . I . . .God.”  

 John dashed his fingers through his hair, rumpling it back. Sherlock watched the movement of his hand, focusing on it.

“Look, how much is all this to rent?” John gestured to his new outfit feeling frustrated.

“We aren’t renting that. I’m buying it for you.”  Sherlock blinked.

“WHAT? You can’t buy me a whole suit!” John complained.

“Why not? You don’t have one.”

“Right, it’s too much, okay. Beside, I’d hardly have any chance to wear it.”

“You need it for this wedding.” Sherlock turned the full wattage of his piercing gaze onto John. “Plus, you have an awards dinner at the end of each year with the football team. You’ll wear it again then.”

“Okay, fine,” John huffed, “but I don’t need all these extras. I have a tie already.”

“It’s horrible. I’m going to burn it. In fact I already did burn it.”

“You didn’t.”

“Might have.”

“Oh, God, fine. You Ponce. Fine. Thank you.” John rubbed at the bridge of his nose to hide the tide of feeling rising over him.

A burst of sweeping violin music exploded across the room. Sherlock dived for his trousers on the back of a chair and returned with his phone. “Hello?”

John tried to appear as though he wasn’t paying attention while listening avidly.

“Yes . . . Fine . . . Of course . . . Oh . . I’m sorry to hear that.”  

Sherlock revealed none of what the conversation was about as he nodded and replied as tersely as possible.

“Yes, MUMMY, alright. I have to go.” Sherlock ended the call.

“Problems?” John asked.

“Nothing terrible. My mother says her allergies are acting up. She wants me to pop round a chemist and pick up some nasal spray.”

“Oh, right, okay.” John nodded. He looked down and realized that Sherlock was in his sock feet, with a fairly large hole over his right toe. The long pale knobby digit threatened to poke free of the black sock entirely.

John couldn’t help giggling.

“I have other socks.” Sherlock curled his toes in defensively.

“I know.” John held in his giggles manfully. “I’ve seen your sock index.”

“There’s nothing wrong with having a sock index.”   

“No, no, I love your sock index!” John hastened to reassure him holding up both palms.

“Hmmph.” Sherlock’s lower lip spoke volumes as it stuck significantly outward. “Are we done here?” He turned toward the older tailor.

“Certainly, sir”  Mr. Stowe stepped closer. “We can wrap up everything when you’re ready to go.”

“I’ll meet you back at the front.” Sherlock whirled to flounce off toward his dressing room.

“Sherlock . . .” John began, but the well-dressed git simply stalked away quicker.

John sighed, and made his way with Reginald in tow back to his own room.

“I wouldn’t worry.” Reginald leaned in conspiratorially.

“Hmm?” John asked.

“It’s normal to fight before a family wedding, all sorts of tension running high. You and your man will make up later.”

“Oh, we’re not . . .” _not what? Not shamming boyfriends? Not sharing a room? Not in a relationship of some convoluted sort?_

“Erm . . . yeah, thanks,” John finished lamely.

He changed back into his street wear, thankful again for the creamy-soft sweater that Sherlock had gifted him earlier. It was becoming something of a trend, Sherlock buying him clothes. John wasn’t sure how he felt about that, but of course he needed the things for the wedding.

John made it to the front of the shop first. He was browsing a rack of jewel-colored ties when Sherlock swirled in, back in his usual button up shirt, dark trousers, and long coat. He seemed incapable of walking into a room like a normal person. John couldn’t help smiling. Sherlock spared John a glance before moving to the counter and whipping out a credit card.

They left the shop carrying a number of parcels, their suits in long zip-up garment bags.

“I think I saw a chemist’s shop at the end of the street.” Sherlock nodded up the road when they stepped outside. “Why don’t we drop this off at the car first and walk over?”

“Yeah okay.”

John hurried to keep up with Sherlock’s long legs striding across the pavement. After leaving their purchases in the boot of the car, they set off along the high street. Sherlock seemed lost in thought, and John didn’t disturb him as they walked along. They passed a line of charming brick terraced homes with small green gardens out front, and a restaurant that looked as if it had been lifted straight from the middle ages. It was all unbelievably twee. John realized that if he’d been walking with a girlfriend, he would have taken her hand by now. He glanced up at Sherlock’s profile, his fair skin so pale in the slanting afternoon light. _Vampire._ It would do him a world of good to get out in the sun a bit more often.

They reached the shop Sherlock had seen earlier, a local place, not a chain pharmacy, in a small whitewashed building with a steeply-pitched roof. Sherlock pulled the door open, and John followed behind. He found it to be more of a general store than just a chemist’s. Sherlock went straight for the allergy section, but John poked around a bit, wondering if he needed anything. He drifted past some cleaning supplies to a display by the counter and found himself looking at a shelf of condoms and various lubricants. Oh God. His mind went to terrible, steamy places almost instantly.

“Afternoon.” The older woman at the register greeted him cordially. “Let me know if you need any help with anything.”

“Erm, yeah, thanks, I’m fine.”

John backed away, feeling his cheeks on fire, and moved to find Sherlock in the small aisles, sorting through the rows of allergy medications.

“Do you know what sort of nasal spray your mother wants?” John sidled up behind him. “Some medications are more habit-forming than others.” 

“Yes, well, Mummy was quite specific in what she wanted. Woe betide the man who returns with something different. Aha. There it is.” Sherlock reached up to snag a small package.

“Okay, no worries.”

John followed the black coat back to the register. They passed a snack food section, and John stopped to inspect a refrigerated case holding frozen treats.

“Ooh, they have Cornettos,” John crowed.

“What’s a Cornetto?” Sherlock backtracked to peer over his shoulder.

“You’ve seriously never had a Cornetto?”

“No, I don’t believe so.” Sherlock shrugged.

“Oh, well, we have to fix that.” John slid open the door and pulled out two of the wrapped desserts.

“Ice cream, John?” Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “It’s eight degrees outside.”

“It’s always a good time for a Cornetto,” John insisted.

Once they’d paid and left the shop, Sherlock stuffed the medication in his pocket, and accepted the wrapped ice cream cone that John handed him. Sherlock copied John as he peeled away the top of the covering.

“Mmmm.” John bit down into the side of his Cornetto, glorying in the flavor of ice cream, chocolate and nuts blending in perfect harmony. “God, I haven’t had one of these in ages.”

Sherlock seemed a bit lost in the moment, watching John enjoy his treat. John laughed.

“Go on, try it.”

Gingerly, Sherlock took a bite, rolling it around his mouth as he considered it.

“It’s good,” he agreed, leaning in to wrap his mouth around the side of the ice cream for another bite.

He had vanilla ice cream smeared all over his perfect cupid’s bow of a lip when he retreated. It was John’s turn to watch mesmerized as the tip of Sherlock’s tongue appeared to lick it clean. 

_Oh. My. God._

John felt himself getting hard in the middle of a busy street standing before a chemist shop.

“Erm, we should be getting back shouldn’t we?” John nearly croaked.

“Oh, right. Let’s go.” Sherlock nodded.

Thankfully the walk back, and the chilly air of the rapidly approaching evening cooled John off. They enjoyed the rest of their ice creams as John kept his eyes firmly forward, not allowing himself to watch as Sherlock nibbled down to the end of his cone.

“You’re right that was good,” Sherlock said, popping the tips of his fingers and thumb into his mouth to lick the last traces of ice cream and chocolate sauce away.

John wanted to kick himself for turning to watch the nearly obscene display. His own cone splintered in his hand as he gripped it too hard. 

“Oh, shit!”

Thankfully they found a nearby rubbish bin for their wrappers and the remains of John’s cone.

“Do you want to drive back?” Sherlock asked when they reached  where the BMW was parked.

“Sadly I never learned to drive,” John said, rubbing at the back of his neck, feeling foolish. “With the bus and all, it just never came up.”

“Ah, forget I mentioned it.” Sherlock unlocked the doors, and they both slid into their seats.

John kept sneaking glances at Sherlock as he drove. On the way up, John had enjoyed looking at new scenery that wasn’t the few square kilometers he saw every day at uni, but on this trip back, he couldn’t seem to keep his eyes off the man. His beautiful hands wrapping around the wheel, the masterful way he steered the car, hugging the curves of the road, it was poetry. There didn’t seem to be anything this man didn’t do with grace and aplomb.

“You don’t actually have to come to the wedding rehearsal, you know, but you are invited to the dinner afterwards.”

“Oh no, I’ll come, hang out in the back. Read something on my phone.” John shrugged.

“It’s bound to be tedious in the extreme.” Sherlock sighed.

“It’s alright. I was in a wedding before,” John offered.

“Really, whose?”

“My Aunt Debra. I was a ring bearer. I hardly remember it really. I was three at the time. All I know is it was blazing hot, middle of the summer at some garden. I seemed to have stripped down as soon as the ceremony was over. Someone caught me running toward a fountain completely starkers.”

“Are there pictures?” Sherlock turned wide eyes John’s way.

“I’d like to say no, but I’m sure there are.” John chuckled. “God, I swear someone tells that bloody story every Christmas.”

“I once opened every jar in the kitchen and poured it across the floor. It seems my nanny had overslept one morning.” Sherlock’s mouth twitched. “I’m surprised Mummy hasn’t told you about it already. This wedding is definitely throwing her off her game.”

“How old were you?”

“Two and a half I think.”

“Already a chemist, hmmm?”

“Yes, probably doing experiments, though I don’t really remember it either,” Sherlock said.

They talked of this and that, the conversation flowing easily until the historic hotel came into view.

“Oh God, back into the fray.” Sherlock sighed. “More horrible family. More horrible, tedious things to do.”

“You know, I haven’t found your family to be awful at all,” John said. “I’ve quite liked them, in fact.”

“You haven’t met all of them yet. The rest will be in by tomorrow.”

“Alright, but I think you’re exaggerating.”

“You’ll see,” Sherlock said, expertly swerving the car into a spare parking space. “John, I have to thank you,” he said after shutting off the engine. “You’ve already made a very tedious weekend much more enjoyable.”

“Well, I’m chuffed to be here. Really, this is lovely.” John gestured toward the grand, old building and the grounds rolling off into the distance. “Hardly a burden.”

“I hope you still feel that way by the end of the weekend.”

“I’ve good company. Who could ask for more?” John smiled.

“Yes . . . well.” Sherlock flushed slightly.

He climbed out of the car. John followed, meeting Sherlock at the boot to unload their things to carry inside. The understated opulence of the lobby hit John again as they made their way to the lift. John opened the door to their room again, and held the door for Sherlock to follow. John dropped his bags on a chair, and flung himself over the squashy sofa.

“Oh, this really is nice. I could get used to this.”

“John, don’t leave your suit like that,” Sherlock scolded.

“Oh, sorry.” John lifted his head from a cushion to watch as Sherlock scooped up his garment bag and went to hang it beside his own in the wardrobe.

“Hey, thanks, man.” John smiled as Sherlock returned to view.

“It’s fine. Look, we only have a few minutes until the rehearsal. I need the bathroom for a bit unless you want it first?”

“No, no, be my guest.” John waved him on.

“Thanks.”

Sherlock rummaged through his things, and disappeared into the loo while John found the remote and clicked on the telly. He quickly ran through the channels before settling on a sports channel running some footie game from Australia. John didn’t know either team, but he enjoyed watching their moves. He’d somewhat lost himself when the bathroom door reopened and Sherlock emerged. He’d obviously redone his hair as it curled perfectly around his face, and changed his shirt for a new aubergine-colored button up.

“Oh, should I change?” John asked, clicking the game off.

“Only if you want to,” Sherlock said. “You look fine.”

“Alright, just let me use the bathroom, and I’ll be good to go.”

John darted into the loo, peed, washed his hands, splashed water on his face, and finger combed his hair back into something presentable. He surveyed his reflection glumly in the mirror for a moment before deciding it would have to do.

Sherlock was right, the rehearsal was long and somewhat tedious. So many people gathered at the tent in the back garden, flapping about, asking questions. The wedding consultant, a short woman with dyed-red hair and a clipboard, directed everyone along with the tenacity of a bulldog. John found a spot in the lines of chairs already draped in white fabric and tied back with a bow.

He brought up a story he was reading on the Kindle app on his phone, but spent most of the time surreptitiously snapping photos of Sherlock as he walked solemnly up the aisle with a pretty woman with long brown hair on his arm, and then stood at the front, rolling his eyes. Evelyn looked radiant in a floral dress, and her husband-to-be, Nathan, a sturdy bloke with short, dark hair seemed nice enough. He looked gobsmacked when he stood up at the front with Evelyn, like he couldn’t believe this woman was agreeing to marry him, and that made John like him even more.

He couldn’t help finding Sherlock again at the front. Their eyes met. Sherlock mimed hanging himself. Then sticking a sword into his torso and slicing upward. John was a bit disturbed to see how accurate his motions looked.

 _Stop._ John moved his lips. He tried not to laugh as he shook a finger at Sherlock. _Idiot._

“Oh, John, how are you holding up?” Sherlock’s mother appeared with her husband toward the end of things.

“Fine. I think they’re almost finished,” John said.

“Yes, I think we timed our arrival well.” Mrs. Holmes nodded.

"So much pink!" Mr. Holmes observed, looking about at the bunting lining the tent. 

"Yes, we can't all be paragons of taste." Mrs. Holmes sniffed. "I told Lily it was going to be too much." 

"Oh, it's fine, hush." Mr. Holmes patted her hand as they settled into empty seats beside John.

When the rehearsal was finally agreed to be over, everyone gravitated toward the private room at the hotel’s restaurant where the dinner was being held. John felt a wash of relief when Sherlock popped up at his side. He didn’t want to admit that he’d been feeling a bit off seeing the attractive brunette wrapped around Sherlock’s arm all evening, even if he hadn’t paid her a whit of attention.

“John, thank you for waiting. God, I thought that might go on until the end of all time.”

“Oh, Pufflelumps, it was only an hour and a half.” John smiled up at him. 

“Really, Cuddlebear, it seemed something like an eternity,” Sherlock drawled.

They both burst out laughing.

“Come on, you two.” Mrs. Holmes reappeared, looking a bit exasperated. “It’s assigned seating, and they won’t start serving until everyone is there."

“Coming, Mummy,” Sherlock said. “John?”  Sherlock tipped his head forward.

“Of course.” Before John could think too hard about it, he reached out and took Sherlock’s hand.

Sherlock stiffened for a microsecond, before his muscles relaxed again. Together, hand in hand, they moved on to follow the others to the dining room. John smiled softly to himself.

If anyone had thought the rehearsal was long, the dinner afterwards was positively glacial. John didn’t think he’d ever had a longer meal in his life. It was course, after course, after course of dainty bites and flowing wine. John and Sherlock were sat at a table with the other groomsmen, four city-boy, banker types who seemed to comprise the whole of the groom’s old uni friends.

None of them came out and said they were homophobic, but they didn’t seem completely comfortable sat with Sherlock and John either. John's true delight of the evening was an ever increasing amount of vamping as they shared food off each other’s plates, acted generally swishy, and critiqued everyone’s fashion sense around the room. Though mostly it was Sherlock doing the critiquing as John really didn’t really give a shite if navy and black didn’t go together.

The banker boys ignored them for the most part until they’d reached a certain level of inebriation in the evening and people grew bolder. Sherlock had gotten into a debate with three of them about supply-side economics when the one next to John leaned in closer.

“So,” Rupert something leered. “I don’t mean to pry, but what’s it like being gay?”

“I wouldn’t know. I’m not gay.” John smiled cheekily at him.

“What . . .?” The man peered at John. “Not gay? But you’re all fancy . . . and with him.” John bristled a bit at that. The man was dressed much more fussily than he was with his slicked back hair, and pin-striped shirt. Still, it was true. At least for the weekend, John was pretending to be with Sherlock.

“I’m actually bisexual. I’ve dated women too.”

“Wow, really?” Rupert leaned even closer. “So if you like women, why are you with him?”

“God, have you looked at him?” John propped his chin over his hand to stare back at Sherlock. His weekend boyfriend had taken all of his silverware and some of John’s to set up some kind of diagram on the table for the city boys. “He’s utterly gorgeous.”

“Well, I wouldn’t know . . . I mean I’m not gay,” Rupert spluttered.

“Oh, come on, mate, you’ve eyes in your head. It’s okay, you know. To notice people.” John turned back to him. “Human sexuality is a spectrum. Few people are completely gay or completely straight. It’s okay to fall somewhere in the middle.”

“Wow. I never thought about it like that.”

“Yeah, everyone’s probably a little bisexual.” John winked as he picked up his wine glass.

The man spluttered more before retreating back to his crème brulee.

When the meal finally broke up after coffees, Nathan appeared at their table rallying his friends for an outing, a quick trip to a pub in town for a last stag-do. He gamely turned toward Sherlock and John, inviting them with a hearty slap to Sherlock’s back.

“No, thank you.” Sherlock seemed to be repressing a shudder. “John?” He quirked an eyebrow John’s way.

“No. Thanks for the invite, but yeah, I’m knackered.”

“You sure? We’d love to have you along.” Nathan smiled a bit too widely.

“No really, we need to go upstairs and . . . cuddle, paint our toenails, that sort of thing.” John grinned back.

Sherlock giggled, and John nudged him, wondering how much wine he’d had. Eventually the city boys cleared out, and the relatives and acquaintances who wanted to have a word with Sherlock did too, and they were free to return to their room.

John looked at the large, fluffy bed for a moment before face planting into the middle of it.

“OH MY GOD,” John groaned into the duvet. “That dinner took foreeeveeer.”

“I told you,” Sherlock said, taking off his shoes, and removing his jacket to hang it in the wardrobe.

“I ate too much. I think I might be sick.” John rolled onto his back.

“Go take a bath, you’ll feel better.”

“Yeah, that sounds like a good idea,” John said. “What about you, do you need the loo?”

“I’ll take a shower tomorrow. Just let me have it for a minute, and then it’s all yours.”

“Okay.”

John rummaged out his sleep gear and toothpaste while Sherlock used the bathroom.

“You're next,” Sherlock said, reappearing in his nicest light blue, striped pyjamas.

“Great, thanks.”

John retreated to the bathroom, and turned the taps on for the great clawfooted bathtub, pouring in bubbles and oils from three different bottles. When the bath was full, John stripped and lowered himself gratefully into the steaming water. When he’d soaked himself into a prune, John washed his hair and rinsed under more water from the taps. He was feeling quite relaxed and rather fragrant when he padded back into the room. Sherlock was already in bed, burrowed deep under the covers. He’d turned off all the lights but the bedside lamp on John’s side. John put his things quietly away before lifting the duvet to slide under. He reached out to turn the light off before settling down. It was quiet. Oddly quiet in the big room. John was so used to the general noise around the dorms the silence was almost deafening.

“Good night, Sherlock,” John whispered in case he was already asleep.

“Good night, John,” Sherlock said, curled up on his side, facing away.

A small safety light in the bathroom cast the dimmest glow over the room, letting John make out the tangle of dark curls on the pillow beside him. More than anything in the world John wanted to reach up and sift his fingers through them. He wanted to roll in and spoon up along Sherlock’s back with such a visceral ache it was almost as though Sherlock were a magnet and John, a clump of iron filings. He absolutely made himself turn on his side away and relax, willing sleep to claim him.

~@~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You won't believe some of the research I've done for this chapter. It's nuts - I just fall down these rabbit holes looking stuff up. I did a crazy amount of research on accents in the UK for a couple of throw-away lines in the clothing shop. Here's a few fun ones I watched . . .
> 
> One Woman, Seventeen British Accents:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FyyT2jmVPAk
> 
> Learn British Accents and Dialects  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nDdRHWHzwR4
> 
> British Accents:West Country  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ahznvtDunEw  
> +++
> 
> I've never had a Cornetto, but we have something similar in the US - we call them a Drumstick. I shamelessly watched this video for inspiration for the story (wows, this girl is cute!) . . .  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OtpWWsxQfFI 
> 
> +++
> 
> I also found a cute pharmacy building that formed the basis of the chemist shop that the boys visit . . .  
> Lloyds Pharmacy - 8 Station St, Kibworth, Kibworth Beauchamp, Leicester LE8 0LN, UK
> 
> Then I walked around the town a ridiculous amount of time on Google Street Map. I decided to pretend that a bridal shop down the road was the spot for the Menswear Shop & Tailor they visit . . .  
> Wedding Belles Bridal Boutique 8-10 High St, Kibworth, Kibworth Beauchamp, Leicester LE8 0LR, UK
> 
> A menswear shop that forms the basis for the tailors' they use is . . .  
> Farleys Wedding Suit Hire of Oadby 8 The Parade, Oadby, Leicester LE2 5BF, UK
> 
> If you want to waste copious amounts of time, you too can go look up these adorable buildings on Google maps! ;)


	11. Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all who are following this fic as a WIP, and leaving comments and kudos. I so appreciate all the support from everyone! It means so much to me. (*u*)

 

~@~

John found himself sitting at his Gram’s formica-topped kitchen table, her old mutt, Bailey, curled contentedly at his feet. Light streamed in through the window over the sink painting the white walls a pale gold. He’d always felt safe at Gram’s. No one raised their voice at her house, and there was always something hot out of the oven to eat.

“Biscuit?” Gram smiled, pushing a plate of baked goods John’s way

“Thanks.” John reached for it, only to draw back, surprised when he found the plate now covered with Cornettos arranged in a circle.

“Johnny,” his grandmother fixed him with _that_ look over her glasses. “You have to go for things you want, darlin’. You can’t always wait for them to come to you.”

“Erm, okay, right.” John nodded. He tried to pick up an ice cream, but everything slipped away, the dream breaking apart before he could grasp it.

The peaceful feeling of his Gram’s kitchen stayed with him though as he blinked his eyes open to the buttery light spilling into the hushed hotel room. The mattress felt like a great enveloping cloud. John tried to stretch, arch his back, and enjoy waking up slowly after a bit of a lie in, but a great weight was keeping him in place.   _Sherlock._ John huffed a quiet laugh. God, was this to be his life now? An armful of gorgeous man as long as he was unconscious or pretending to be? John looked down at the long drink of water sleeping half over him.

John wanted to gather Sherlock up, slot their bodies together, burrow in as close as he was able. He wanted to pepper kisses across the forehead he could see against his chest, whisper sweet nothings into that shell of an ear peeking out of a tangle of dark curls. He wanted to reach lower and get a handful of that truly delectable arse, let the rising tide of blood between them carry them off to other explorations, but . . . John had no idea if Sherlock would allow that or simply squawk and leap out of the bed.

John lay as still as he possibly could, enjoying this, just this, lying together. God, Sherlock was a lovely thing, all long limbs, and whirling energy when awake, now soft and pliant, sprawled willingly against him. At least in his sleep Sherlock seemed to trust him enough to let go.

John couldn’t stand it another minute. He moved his arm under Sherlock, gone pins and needles, and rolled the man closer onto his chest. He wrapped both arms around him, leaned his cheek against the top of those dark curls, and breathed in lingering traces of tropical flowers and the sleepy scent of Sherlock. Oh . . . God. They fit perfectly. John blew out a breath of relief at finally getting to hold him like he wanted to.

“Mmm, John?” Sherlock mumbled sleepily as he stirred.

“Yeah?” John smoothed an open palm down Sherlock’s spine. His shirt had rucked up in the night, and John rested his hand over the warm skin of Sherlock’s mid-back. “Good morning.”

“Good morning.” Sherlock lifted his head shyly.

He had slightly sour breath, and the barest trace of stubble marring the pristine white of his jaw. His hair looked something like a bird’s nest taken half apart in the wind. He was so close John could see himself reflected in Sherlock’s eyes, just a shadow of John in the midst of a wide, blue summer sky. John wanted to kiss the man so badly it hurt. He felt the pull as inevitable as the call of gravity as you jump off a diving board, hanging for just a moment before crashing down into cold water swallowing you whole.

“I . . .” John had no idea how to finish that sentence.  He reached up to push aside the fall of raven curls that had tumbled over Sherlock’s forehead.

Sherlock drew in a sharp breath. He shifted, and his leg between John’s thighs rocked in against his groin.

“Oh, _Christ_.” John groaned as a bolt of heat lightning shot straight through him.

“Sorry, sorry.” Sherlock made to back away.

“No, please . . .”

Sherlock’s phone erupted in a buzz as it clattered against the top of the nightstand.

“Oh, that’s me.” Sherlock dived for it.

John sat up, watching Sherlock hold a terse conversation with someone on the phone while he flitting about the room, grabbing up bits of his clothing.

“Yes, alright . . . okay . . . I understand.” 

John could still hear him talking as he moved into the bathroom, pulling the door closed behind him, his deep tones going muffled.

“Fuck.” John flopped back heavily into the fluffy pillows.

Sherlock was shaved and fully dressed when he re-emerged from the loo, his wild hair tamed into something sadly much more presentable. John had so wanted to run his fingers through the mess of it.

“Sherlock, look, I . . .” John pushed up onto an elbow.

“Sorry, no time to chat.” Sherlock made a beeline for his shoes, smashing his feet into them with little finesse. “Must dash.”

“Wait a minute, please.” John sat fully upright. “I just wanted to . . .”

“That was Mummy.” Sherlock bent over, balancing on one foot, to tug on a shoe that didn’t quite want to admit his foot. _Shove._ “Problem with the florist.” _Shove._ “Their delivery van broke down this morning.” Sherlock hopped a bit until the leather finally gave enough for his long foot to slip inside. “Mmmph. We need to transport the wedding flowers ourselves.” He stood upright, triumphant.

“Yeah, okay, I can help.” John flipped the covers aside, making to crawl out of the bed.

“No, no, no. You’re a guest. Stay, amuse yourself.” Sherlock waved his hands to stop John’s progress. “There’s the poolandtheexerciseroomandthegroundandabuffetbreakfastdownstairs . . . I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

Sherlock flashed a slightly manic smile as he scooped his keys and wallet off the top of the dresser. In one fluid movement, he stepped to grab his long coat from the wardrobe, and swirl it over himself.

 “Back in a tick,” Sherlock said as he all but flung himself from the room.

“Well,” John said as the door clicked shut behind the madman. “I guess that’s told me, then.”

John sighed and scrubbed a hand through his hair as he surveyed his plush surroundings. It was lovely, but the sudden vacuum of no-Sherlock seemed to suck all the air out of the room. John padded into the bathroom for a piss before wandering about the space, wondering what to do with himself. He felt so unsettled it was as if ants were crawling over his skin. John stopped before the window, throwing open the curtains to study the view outside. The day looked to be a gorgeous one, all warm, slanting autumn light. The beautiful swath of trees rolling out below were just starting to change colours, their leaves tinged in yellows and rust. All in a rush, John knew exactly what he wanted to do, go for a run.

He changed into a pair of shorts he’d brought and the rugby shirt from the day before. After lacing up his trainers, he slipped the room key into his pocket and found the stairs to take him to the lobby. A young woman at the desk politely answered his questions about the layout of the property, sliding a small map his way to point out the walking trails he might use for his run.

John thanked her, and headed out, avoiding the people moving toward the restaurant for breakfast. Food was the last thing he wanted after the big dinner of the night before. He left the main building, following the path that led by some single-story structures that held meeting rooms, the heated indoor pool, and of course the large white tent set up for the wedding. John passed through a courtyard where a number of people had settled to enjoy the morning sun and a cuppa. He recognizing a few from the wedding rehearsal the night before and walked quicker, hoping to avoid any small talk.

It was with some relief that John left the inhabited areas, and entered the woods proper. He took a moment to stretch his quads, and hamstrings, and then set off, feeling that familiar burst of joy as his feet hit packed earth. He reveled in letting his brain switch off focusing on the rhythm of step, step, swinging arms, breath in and out. He ran almost every day around the track or gym at uni, but this was a lovely change, being out in the dappled sunlight amidst the leaves, surrounded by birdsong. A rich, loamy smell filled his lungs with each glorious inhale. The trees eventually opened up around a small pond and John enjoyed watching a few ducks paddling about on the surface of the water as he looped around and headed back.

He’d had the path to himself, but as he neared the hotel, John passed an older couple out walking arm in arm, and then a family with several small children. John nodded pleasantly to them as he passed.

He slowed, walking the last stretch to cool down. As he passed sculpted shrubbery and entered the courtyard again, John heard a very familiar baritone.

“Yes, Mummy, I’ve got it. I’m NOT going to drop it.”

A pair of black trouser-clad legs appeared underneath a large, potted flowering bush.  John moved forward to intercept it.

“Need some help?”

“John.” A pair of sea-deep eyes peered around the edge of the foliage.

“Hey.” John sidled up beside him to take the weight of one side of the pot without waiting for Sherlock’s reply. 

“Oh, John, dear, how lovely to see you.” Mrs. Holmes brought up the rear holding a stack of grey boxes with “Secret Garden” stamped in bright pink across the front. “Would you mind helping us carry in the next load, too?”

“Yeah, no worries, of course.”

John moved in step beside Sherlock to maneuver the bush into the tent, enjoying simply having a reason to be close to the man as their shoulders bumped. A number of staff members were flitting about, and thankfully someone directed where to set the plant down.

John wiped an arm across his forehead suddenly realizing how sweaty and disheveled he was as he stepped back.

“Thanks,” Sherlock muttered, looking somewhere at the floor.

“Did you have a good lie-in, dear? Sherlock said you weren’t feeling well this morning.” Mrs. Holmes peered more closely at John.

“No, fine, fine. Went for a bit of a run, in fact.” John gestured somewhat unnecessarily to his unkempt self.

“Oh good. Lots to do, lots to do . . .” Mrs. Holmes led them back toward the car where another bush similar to the one they’d just carried lay wedged in the back seat.

Again, John moved in beside Sherlock and helped carry the thing over to the tent.

“I don’t mind helping, you know,” John said.

“Yes, thank you,” Sherlock muttered.

Once the second bush had been dropped off in the appropriate spot at the front of the tent, it seemed their services were no longer needed.

A buzz of activity that reminded John of bees around a hive had them backing out of the way into the courtyard.

“Have you had breakfast?” John squinted up at Sherlock backlit by the sun.

“No, not really hungry,” Sherlock looked off into the distance, his face impassive.

“Come sit with me then? I’m suddenly starving, and I don’t want to eat alone.”

Sherlock’s pale blue gaze finally swung back to lock onto John’s face.

“All right.”

“Great.” John smiled. “Just let me change my clothes, and I’ll be right back down, okay?”

“I’ll wait downstairs for you,” Sherlock said.

They moved into the dark of the building through a side door to a corridor that looked as if it might lead them back to the lobby. John was just wondering if it would be okay if he took Sherlock’s hand when a very loud male voice reached them from around the corner.

“I can’t believe Sherlock’s got a date. Honestly, has anyone actually seen the man?”

Sherlock stumbled to a halt next to a large oil painting of yellow sunflowers, and glanced at John looking horrified. John stopped beside him, hating to eavesdrop, but powerless to do anything else.

 “He was always making up imaginary friends, wasn’t he?” A shrill woman’s voice answered. “Remember Redbeard?”

 “God, and what about the time he said he was dating that bloke from Oxford?” Another man chimed in. “What was the name . . . .”

“Victor Trevor!” the high-pitched female voice trilled after an indistinct burble.

“Right! I talked with a friend about it, Rowan Billingsworth, do you remember him? Good lad,” Mr. Posh Knob drawled on. “Anyway, he knew Victor, asked him about it. Do you know he barely remembered Sherlock? Said he was the weird, skinny kid in the back of the room at some computer class he took over the summer. Hardly said two words to him.”

Another rumble was followed by a burst of laughter. John felt his blood pressure rising. He hated whoever belonged to the horrible, poncy-sounding voices. Arseholes. He glanced at Sherlock who had gone nearly scarlet.

“John, I can explain.”

“No, it’s fine.”

“We can go out . . .” Sherlock motioned down the corridor, back the way they’d come.

“Like hell we will.” John did scoop up Sherlock’s hand then, tugging the man along with him toward the lobby and the unseen voices.

“John, no . . .” Sherlock sputtered, but followed as John marched resolutely forward around the corner into the wider space.

A small group of people stood chatting, a tall dark-haired man with his back to them was surely the loud wanker they’d heard earlier.  John pulled Sherlock along until they were nearly abreast with them, then swung around and catching the briefest glimpse of Sherlock’s wide blue eyes, pulled the man into a kiss.

John had to strain up to reach him at first, but a hand slid around the back of Sherlock’s neck, soon urged him to bend lower. Sherlock stood nearly immobile for a moment as John pressed his mouth to his, willing him to relax. John licked over his lips then, and when the man gasped, he stormed in, his tongue sliding gratefully into Sherlock's mouth. He slipped a hand under Sherlock’s coat, gripping the back of his shirt for balance, feeling his arms come around him before utterly losing himself in the delectable act of kissing Sherlock Holmes.

Soft, warm heat radiated over John, the delicious friction sending waves of longing to pool low and heavy in his belly. He kept trying to bring everything closer, deeper . . . more. Someone was making positively decadent noises at the back of their throat, and just when John thought he might have to collapse to the floor, they parted for air. Sherlock looked fabulously gobsmacked, making John want to kiss the beautiful man all over again.

“Sherlock?” The poncy-voiced man sounded shocked.

“Oh, hullo.” John turned to face the group now staring unabashedly at them. “Sherlock, do you know this lot?” He tipped his head their way.

John could see Sherlock jump starting his brain like a computer booting up. It was dead sexy.

“John, this is my cousin, Alasdair Coldicott, his wife, Margo, his sister, my cousin, Tilly, and these are some family friends, Ronald Huxley, and his wife, Beverly.”  Sherlock smoothly introduced the open-mouthed people currently gaping at them.

“How do you do?” John stepped forward with an extended palm, a cheeky grin spread over his face. “John Watson, pleased to meet you.”  John shook hands all around as the people struggled for something polite to say. He was fascinated watching their manners and toothy smiles overlay their earlier snide remarks.

“Charmed.”

 “So nice to meet you.”

An older man and woman bustled over from the reception desk, and Sherlock introduced them to John as his Aunt Rose and Uncle Vernon, Alasdair and Tilly’s parents. They greeted John somewhat coolly, but the warmth in Sherlock’s eyes as he proudly presented him as his boyfriend made a lump form in John’s throat. He knew it was just an act, just a show to impress these tossers, but still . . .

“Hey, breakfast must be nearly over,” John said once they were free, “But I need to pop up for a change.”

“Yes, I’ll grab a table.”

Sherlock swept off toward the restaurant while John hurried to the lift and back to the room. He flung his sweaty things to the bathroom floor and swabbed off as much as he could with a damp flannel before digging out the nicest clothes he had packed. The chinos and button up shirt were a bit worn, but at least presentable.

John felt as though he needn’t have bothered trying to dress up. Half of the people in the restaurant were wearing jeans and track suits when he located Sherlock at a small table with a cup of tea at his elbow.  He looked beautifully elegant scrolling through his phone, long legs crossed at the ankle as he leaned back in his seat. He was bathed in light spilling down from the large skylight over head, the sunbeams picking out the glints of red hiding in his dark curls. God, he looked like the subject of a Renaissance painting  . . . with an i-phone.

“Hey.” John dropped into the chair opposite.

“John.” Sherlock’s face flushed with pleasure.

A server stopped by their table to offer John tea or coffee and John chose tea before going up to serve himself from the chafing dishes set along one wall. Sherlock had said he wasn’t hungry, but John chose a few extra things he thought he might like and took the two plates back to the table.

“I told you I wasn’t hungry.” Sherlock frowned.

“Berk. Who said anything about you. This is all mine.” John defiantly placed both dishes before his place, nearly challenging Sherlock to say more.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but returned to his cup of tea without further comment.

John tucked into his sausages and eggs with gusto, surprised that he could even consider food after the night before. He decided it must be all the fresh air.

John reached for a packet of jam from the bowl of condiments on the table for his toast, and sneered when he picked up marmite instead.

“Ugh, nasty stuff. I can’t image why anyone would actually eat this.”

“I like it on occasion.” Sherlock shrugged.

“You do?”

“It’s not that bad.”

“Go on, then.” John shoved one of his scones and a packet of marmite in Sherlock’s direction.

“What?”

“I want to see someone actually consume this.”

“Honestly, John.” Sherlock rolled his eyes, but he did cut open the scone, and slather the brown spread over the halves.

John spent more time watching his long fingers deftly wielding the silverware than was strictly necessary. He felt himself growing distinctly warm as he watch Sherlock lift the food to his mouth and take a bite. God, those beautiful lips. John licked his own in unconscious memory of having them pressed against his mouth. Sherlock chewed and swallowed.

“There, see.” Sherlock smiled as he reached for his tea. “No adverse effects.”

No adverse effects his arse. John shifted on his seat as he felt something decidedly stirring under the napkin on his lap. _Down boy._

“Yeah, great.” John forced a chuckle, and made himself think of other things.

“Soooo . . .  Victor Trevor.” John leaned in slightly across the table. “You told me you’d made him up out of whole cloth. He really exists?”

 “The best lie contains a kernel of truth.” Sherlock flushed across his cheekbones.

“So you really did attend a computer camp with this Victor?”

“Yes, yes. I believe we’ve already established this.” Sherlock waved an irritated hand. “I needed a convenient placeholder to stop my family’s near constant attempts at matchmaking.”

“So, was he quite fit? Did you fancy him?”

“John . . .” Sherlock cleared his throat, looking down as he reached out to adjust how the spoon lay beside his cup.

“No, look it’s fine, you don’t need to answer that.” John shook his head. “I’m sorry I don’t mean to pry.”

“You must think I’m an idiot.” Sherlock raised stricken eyes his way.

“No. No.” John reached out to lay a hand to his forearm. “I think Victor was an idiot if he didn’t notice how fantastic you are.”

“Well,” Sherlock flushed again, but this time it seemed a happier occurrence.

“So, you were right, I definitely don’t like all of your family.”  John moved back to spoon up a bite of eggs. “That Alasdair bloke was a real tosser.”

“My Aunt Rose married an investment counselor at a financial firm . . . we don’t keep up with their family much.”

“Well, I can see why. Horrible people.”

“John, what you did back there . . . that was . . . good. Thank you.”

“Ah, well, just trying to be a good boyfriend for the weekend, Pumpkinbunny.”

“Yes, well, thank you, Sugarbottom.”

They caught each other’s eye and burst into a smothered round of giggles.

“Bacon?” John offered Sherlock a strip from one of his plates. “I took a bit more than I can actually manage.”

“Alright.” Sherlock accepted the offering.         

Over the course of the meal, John urged Sherlock to take a small fruit tart, and fully half of his bacon. Between the two of them, they managed to clear the plates.

“So what’s the schedule for this afternoon?” John asked, wiping his mouth, finally feeling full.

“The groomsmen need to assemble for some pictures.” Sherlock shuddered delicately. "And then the wedding is at four.”

“So you’re free until then?”

“Ostensibly. If no more disasters occur.”

“Let’s go swimming.”

“I didn’t pack a swimming costume.”

“What? You knew they had a pool.”

“Didn’t think I’d be using it,”  Sherlock huffed.

“I wonder if we could go back into town. Find a Primark maybe . . .” John suggested.

“Oh, please, no. I’ll see if my father has something he can lend me.”

“Okay.”

They left for the lift to return upstairs, John to the suite to change, and Sherlock to stop by his parents’ room.

John easily found his swim trunks in his bag, and dug out a tee shirt to pair with it. His phone vibrated from where he’d left it on the dresser. He swiped it on to see he had messages.

_Dad has bathing costume._

_Meet you at pool. SH_

John smiled, quickly changed, jamming his feet into his trainers without socks, and set off. A corridor downstairs connected the main building with the newer addition holding the pool. John followed the signs to the right door, though the smell of chlorine and loud echoing voices was a bit of a give away too.

John quickly scanned the room, but Sherlock wasn’t there yet. A mum was seated on a chaise lounge flipping through a magazine while two little girls and a boy splashed about at the shallow end of the pool. John moved to the opposite side, happy to note it was big enough that they shouldn’t run into each other. He found a chair to drop his shirt over, tucking his shoes underneath, and moved to sit on the edge of the pool. It was only deep at the very far end, and when John slipped into the warm water, _aah_ , he found himself just shy of being able to stand.

John treaded water for a few moments before leaning back and letting himself float, arms and legs spread out. The cries of the children and their mum’s occasionally hushing faded as his ears dipped under the surface of the water. John closed his eyes, and let the world slip away, bobbing contentedly. Some disturbance in the very air of the pool house as the door opened made him open his eyes and find his feet. Sherlock strode inside barefoot, wearing a pair of striped navy trunks that hung just a bit too large on him, and a plain white tee shirt that seemed to swallow him up. He looked about twelve in his father’s borrowed clothes.

John couldn’t help the laugh that burbled out of him.

“Oh, shut up.” Sherlock stopped by the side of the pool, frowning at him.

“No, it’s great.” John waved helplessly. “I’m glad you could come for a swim. Come on in, the water’s lovely.”

Sherlock pulled the shirt off over his head and bent to drop it onto a nearby chair. The muscles along his long lean back rippled, and John’s laughter died in his throat. _Christ, he was beautiful_.

“The water’s warm?” Sherlock asked, moving to stand right at the edge of the pool, his long, nearly-prehensile toes hanging over the edge.

“Yup.” John swallowed, his mouth gone suddenly dry.

“Ah.”

Sherlock took a few steps back, and before John had any idea what he was about, launched himself into a canon ball toward the pool. John cried out as a small tsunami of water crashed over his head. The children shrieked in delight at being caught in the blast radius.  

“Bastard!” John yelled when Sherlock resurfaced, flinging an armful of water his way in retaliation.

Sherlock turned to avoid the worst of it, sniggering. John would have splashed him again, but he realized the mum with the magazine was fanning her now-damp reading material and giving them a dirty look.

“Sorry,” John called out, and moved to swim back to the far edge of the pool.

Sherlock followed him, his long arms pulling him neatly through the water in just a few strokes. He reached out to hold onto the wall as John was doing. His normally springy curls lay wet and heavy, and he tossed his head to the side to flip wet hair out of his face.

God. John wanted to kiss him again. Badly.

“So, you’re good at swimming too?”

“I’ve had lessons.” Sherlock shrugged.

“I was on the swim team for a few years in secondary,” John admitted.

“Win anything?”

“I was good at front crawl,” John said. “Placed second a few times. When I realized I was never going to make the Olympics though, I switched to footie.”

“Well, then I’m indebted to your decision to find a sport you excelled at.”

“Yeah, how do you figure?” John frowned.

“If you hadn’t gotten a football scholarship to our university, we probably would never have met.”

“Oh, right.” John couldn’t fault Sherlock’s logic.

The idea of somehow having missed meeting this amazing, talented, gorgeous man sent a sudden chill down John’s spine and he shivered despite the warmth of the water.

John glanced up as the family at the other side of the pool made a bit of a ruckus packing up to leave. The mum urged the children out of the water as they whinged, but eventually shoes and towels were gathered, and the group moved out of the room.

“Ooh, we’ve got the space for a bit of racing.” John tipped his head.

“How far?” Sherlock glanced across the pool.

“To the other edge and back,” John said.

“You’re on.” The madman had a gleam in his eye.

“I’ll count off,” John said as they hung on the edge, preparing themselves to launch. “On your mark . . . GO.”

John couldn’t properly see underwater without goggles on, but he tracked the body splashing along beside him as his arms sliced into the water, his legs kicking with all he had. Sherlock was good. He pulled ahead instantly, long-limbed thing, but they evened out as they had to slow to navigate the shallows. As they pushed off from the side, Sherlock paused, fumbling, and John soared ahead, easily making the other side several strokes before Sherlock’s long arm reached out for the edge.

“Bugger,” Sherlock said when he surfaced.

“What happened? You choked.” John grinned.

“Nearly lost my damn trunks,” Sherlock admitted. “They were sliding right off.”

“Oh, well, that is a problem.” John giggled.

“Unfair advantage.” Sherlock sniffed.

“No, you’re really good. Shame you never tried out for a swim team. With those long arms and legs, you’d be certain to place.”

“Well, it would detract from my work.” Sherlock shrugged. “I have more important things to be doing with my time.”

“Right.” John nodded. He suddenly felt a bit odd, realizing he spent fully half his time on uni at something or other to do with footie.

“John, I didn’t mean . . .”

“No, it’s fine . . .”

They both looked up as the door swung open.

“Hullo?” A girl with curly hair wearing a purple swimsuit with a large dotted towel about her waist ventured in. John thought she looked familiar, trying to place her until it clicked that she was Sherlock’s younger cousin . . .

“Olivia,” Sherlock hailed her.

“Oh, hi, Sherlock, I thought that was you.” The girl walked closer to the edge of the pool. “Is it alright if I swim with you? Mum said I could only come to the pool if I wasn’t the only one in.”

“Yes, of course.” Sherlock nodded

“Oh brilliant, thanks.” Olivia grinned, moving to drop her things to the side.

 “You don’t mind, do you?” Sherlock murmured to John.

“No, of course not.” John shook his head. Though he might have liked more alone time with Sherlock, he wasn’t a monster.

“You remember John?” Sherlock gestured his way as Olivia moved to sit on the edge of the pool, dipping her feet into the water.

“Hi, John!” Olivia gave a bit of a wave.

“Hey.” John moved closer.

“Where’s everyone else?” Sherlock asked.

“Oh, doing their makeup and getting their hair all posh.” The girl mimed piling her hair on top of her head. “Booooring.”

“That does sound tedious.” Sherlock nodded.

“Mum says I’ll be more interested in it when I get older.” Olivia sighed, dragging her feet under the water, making waves. “I certainly hope not.”

“There’s no reason you have to follow any sort of stereotypical gender norms.”

“Exactly. Mum says I’ll care about flowers and things when it’s my turn to get married.” Olivia knotted her brow. “but I don’t think I want to get married. I’ll find a friend and we’ll live together and have dogs.”

“That doesn’t sound bad.” John smiled.

“Are you two getting married?” Olivia asked, eyes wide. “Mum says it’s legal now. Two men or two women getting married.”

“Oh, erm . . . that is . . .” Sherlock had turned even paler than usual, blinking at Olivia as his mouth hung slightly open.

“That’s right, gay couples can get married now,” John stepped in. “It’s a good thing, but that’s not something we’re . . . erm  . . . thinking about personally right now.”

“So boyfriends don’t always HAVE to get married?” Olivia cocked her head. “What about girlfriends?”

Sherlock continued to look as though he’d been put on pause.

“Erm . . . I’m sure different couples can work it out for themselves.” John rubbed at the back of his neck. “You know, individually.”

“What about sex, then?” Olivia began, “Mum says people can have sex even before they get married.”

“Yes, that is true.” Sherlock blinked, seeming to have found a ledge to stand on in the conversation. “Marriage is a societal construct with varying rules in different times and places, but mating and reproduction have always occurred within the human species.”

“So with two men, how does that . . .” Olivia began.

“Hey, let’s play a game,” John offered, clapping his hands together.

“Oh, I like games. Which one?”

“What do you like to play in the pool best?” John asked.

“Marco Polo,” Olivia said.

“What in the world is that?” Sherlock wrinkled his nose.

“Have you never played?” John turned his way. “It’s like a game of Blindman’s Bluff, but in the pool.”

When Sherlock continued to look puzzled, John explained more patiently that it was a game of tag, and the person who was “it” had to keep their eyes closed while calling out “marco” and the other players had to answer with “polo” letting them know by sound alone where they were in the pool, all the while trying to avoid being tagged.

“Alright,” Sherlock agreed. “Seems simple enough.”    

“How well do you swim?” John asked Olivia.

“Mum says like a fish.”

“Go on, show us then.” John smiled.

Olivia slid into the pool, showing her prowess by swimming a lap across the width and back.

“Very good,” John agreed once she had returned.

“Who’s ‘it’ first?” Olivia asked, wiping water out of her eyes.

“I’ll go,” Sherlock said.

“Fine, but no cheating, you have to keep your eyes closed,” John teased.

“I never cheat.” Sherlock drew himself up taller.

“That not true,” Olivia said “the last time we played hearts . . .”

“Enough! Who’s playing this game oddly named after Italian explorers?”

“Oh yes, let’s!” Olivia agreed.

Following instructions, Sherlock dutifully turned by the wall, and counted to ten as the others spread out.

“Marco!” Sherlock called.

“Polo!” Olivia and John answered.

Eyes, closed, Sherlock began moving their way. John felt a burst of excitement coursing through him. He realized how much he wanted to be caught, but for Olivia’s sake he kept out of Sherlock’s reach, leading the man around the pool until Sherlock decided to turn and grab Olivia’s leg as she shrieked.

“Aha, got you little fishie!” Sherlock crowed.

They played several rounds, taking turns with being “it.” John couldn’t help zeroing in on Sherlock’s deep voice when it was his turn, as the man hopped about the pool evading capture. John decided then he’d have Sherlock or die trying. Sherlock dashed off into the deep end and John followed listening to the sound of Sherlock’s splashing to guide him. Finally, he had him cornered against the wall. John reached for him, the two of them laughing as Sherlock writhed like an eel. John moved to grab him about the waist, finding that his trunks had slipped again, and his hand encountered bare skin all the way down his flank to the smooth upper swell of his buttocks.

“Mmmm,” John growled opening his eyes, dragging him closer. “Look what I caught.”

“John,” Sherlock laughed, breathless, wet hair streaming into his ocean-tinted eyes.

John grabbed a handful of bum hidden under the water, and squeezed. Sherlock made the most delicious sound from the back of his throat. John couldn’t help it. He moved in, and kissed him, tasting chlorine, and salt, and Sherlock. Sherlock slipped an arm around him and kissed back. It was glorious . . . warm, soft, dissolving John's every thought . . . 

“Eeewwww, what are you doing?” Olivia cried. “You’re supposed to be playing a game, not snogging!”

“Oh, God, sorry, sorry.” John broke apart, moving away as Sherlock pulled his swim trunks back into place.

“Yes, John, honestly, there’s nothing in the rules about kissing.” Sherlock pretended great affront. “Though maybe an amendment could be made  . . .”

They glanced at each other and burst into giggles.

“Guuuuuuys,” Olivia whinged.

“Why don’t we play something else?” John suggested, struggling to keep a straight face.

They found a ball by the side of the pool and set up a game of catch until Olivia wanted to do underwater handstands. John and Olivia were competing to see who could do the best job with Sherlock judging when the door opened and Sherlock’s father popped his head inside.

“Oh, Livie, there you are, good,” he said. “I’ve been sent to fetch you.”

“Uncle Siggy, noooo. We’re having fuuuun,” Olivia whinged.

“Now, now, perhaps you’ll have time later. Come on, we need to get ready for the wedding,” Mr. Holmes tutted, holding a hand out.

“Oh, fine,” Olivia conceded, splashing her way up the steps.

“You two had best get ready too,” he looked Sherlock and John’s way as he handed Olivia her towel.

“Yes, I supposed duty calls,” Sherlock sighed, looking as put out as Olivia.  

John had to chuckle.

“Thanks for playing, I had fun,” Olivia turned at the door.

“Yes, it was fun,” Sherlock agreed.

“Bye, Olivia, see you at the wedding!” John called.

Mr. Holmes waved as he ushered the girl out the door.

Sherlock and John didn’t seem to know where to look now that they were alone, coming over shy.

“You were good with her,” John offered.

“She and Evelyn spent the summers with us after their father died. I’ve seen her grow up.” Sherlock shrugged.

“Oh, wow. What did he die of?”

“Heart attack, five years ago.”

“That’s a shame.”

“Yes. Well, we should go up. I need to shower.” Sherlock sighed.

“Yeah, okay.” John nodded.

John swam to the edge, heaving himself up to pad over to a stack of white towels on a shelf.  Sherlock elected to swim to the stairs, holding onto his trunks as he made his way out of the pool. He looked like some kind of merman, lithe and lean, the dark trunks clinging to his thighs like seaweed, threatening to slide back down again.  John met him, holding out another towel.

“Thanks.” Sherlock took it without looking at him.

They dried off, and pulled shirts back on. John slipped on his trainers. Sherlock looped his towel around his neck catching the drips from his curls, while John slung his around his waist. It felt chilly in the corridor after the humid warmth of the pool room.  An awkwardness seemed to have grown up between them that was just as cold, and John had no idea how to cross it. They moved to the lift in silence. John fished out the key at the room, and held the door open for Sherlock to follow him in.

“I’ll need to be awhile. Do you need to use the bathroom first?” Sherlock asked, moving to sift through a dresser drawer.

“Yeah, sure, thanks.” John quickly used the toilet, washed his hands, and returned to find Sherlock amassing an armload of things to bring into the loo.

He grabbed his garment bag last and moved toward the bathroom without another word, leaving John in the bedroom. John dropped his wet trunks in a corner and changed into dry briefs and jeans. He collapsed onto the sofa, and turned the telly on, cycling through the channels before settling on a cooking show. He couldn’t help keeping half an ear out for the sounds of water running and then a hair dryer going from the bathroom.

When Sherlock emerged, John was not prepared. Sherlock strode into the room in a cloud of scent, wearing his beautiful groomsman’s suit, his dark curls framing his elegant face perfectly, looking like he was a model on some catwalk in Milan . . . albeit a barefoot one. John felt his mouth drop open.

“Erm, you look . . . good,” John said, feeling that he’d accomplished a great deal by getting out those simple words.

“Thank you.” Sherlock flushed.

He moved to stow a few things, returning to drop into an arm chair to put on his socks and shoes. John couldn’t help watching, mesmerized as some bloke droned on in the background about proper sautéing techniques.

“You can come down with my parents in an hour if you like,” Sherlock said, tying his laces in a taut bow. “So you don’t have to go down alone.”

“Oh, yeah, okay. Thanks.”

“Well.” Sherlock slapped his hands onto his thighs. “I’m off for all the fun and games.”

“Good luck.”

Sherlock flashed John a taut smile, and then he was off, stalking out the door, leaving John alone with sizzling teriyaki chicken on the screen, and an ache clear down to his bones.

“God, I am so fucked,” John groaned.

He clicked off the telly, and moved to take a shower and begin his own preparations.

~@~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While I am basing this hotel on Highgate house in Northampton, it is a loose interpretation and some of the layout is different in this story. I certainly gave them a much larger space to play in with the pool. Still, if you'd like to see some pics of the place, you can check out. . .  
> https://www.tripadvisor.com/Hotel_Review-g1096752-d569778-Reviews-Highgate_House_Hotel-Creaton_Northamptonshire_England.html  
> +++


	12. Twelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course I had to do extensive research on songs commonly played at British weddings, and then popular songs in general on the UK charts. Like ya do. For some reason the beat and the lyrics of this appealed to me so Sherlock and John get to dance to this fun number at the reception . . .  
> [Tinie Tempah - Girls Like ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OEiva3cMv6k)

~@~

John stood looking in the mirror over the dresser, fiddling with his tie. He’d never actually tied one on his own before, and he wasn’t quite sure which way the ends flipped. A knock sounded on the door. John moved to answer it, hoping for a moment that it was Sherlock. He opened the door to find instead a beaming Mr. and Mrs. Holmes in the corridor. Sherlock’s dad had on a sensible dark suit, while his mum wore a long, lilac-coloured dress with something sparkling and feathery pinned into her hair.

“Oh, hello,” John said.

“Hello, John,” Mrs. Holmes said brightly

“Having a spot of bother?” Mr. Holmes asked, motioning to the tie looped around John’s neck. “I can help you with that.”

“Oh, God, yes, please.” John opened the door wider. “Come in, won’t you?”

“Isn’t this lovely?” Mrs. Holmes swept through the room, inspecting things while Mr. Holmes moved to help John with his tie.

“Here why don’t we do this in front of the mirror?”

John stood before the dresser with Mr. Holmes behind him.

“Here, pull the ends like this,” Sherlock’s dad reached around him. “This bit tucks here . . .”

John watched as the man patiently showed him how to maneuver the tie into a decent knot.

“There we go.” Mr. Holmes smiled in the mirror, patting John’s shoulder.

“Thanks so much,” John said. He couldn’t remember his own father showing him how to do much of anything. Except perhaps how to pop the top off of a beer bottle on the side of the kitchen bench.

“I love the bathroom. Did you see that bath?” Mrs. Holmes reappeared from the ensuite. “Gorgeous.”

“Yes, it is nice,” John agreed. “I’ve already had a long soak.”

“Look, champagne! How lovely.” Mrs. Holmes lifted the bottle they’d left alongside the box of chocolates on the small desk in the room. “Not the best vintage, but still . . .”

“Oh, right, it came with the bridal suite. I thought perhaps we should get it to Evelyn and Nathan?” John said. “It was meant for them.”

“Nonsense, they’ve more than enough stuff and bother to be getting on with at the moment.” Mrs. Holmes waved a hand as she set the bottle down. “You boys should enjoy it.”

“Alright. Yeah. Thanks,” John said, sudden visions of sitting in the bath with Sherlock, drinking champagne, and feeding each other the chocolates, licking the sweet smears off Sherlock’s beautiful, long fingers . . .

“Well, are you two ready?” Mrs. Holmes swung her piercing blue gaze back John’s way. “We don’t want to be late.”

There was no way Sherlock’s mother could read John’s mind, but he felt a wave of embarrassment crest over him all the same.

“Yeah, sure, I’m good to go.” John nodded.

John was grateful for the company of Sherlock’s parents as they exited the lift and made their way to the large tent outside. A veritable army of people in formal attire had descended upon the hotel, flocking like brightly-coloured birds across the courtyard. The Holmeses stopped to speak to many of them, and John was introduced several times as Sherlock’s boyfriend before they made it to the entrance to the tent. John smiled and nodded, shaking hands when needed and squashed down the niggling little voice inside whispering _liar, liar._

The tent felt different crammed with people filling the rows of seats. Despite the body heat, the temps were dropping as evening neared, and several heaters had been set inside the tent to keep it warm.

“I’ll see you in a minute, Poppet.” Mr. Holmes pecked his wife on the cheek.

“Of course,” she said, patting absently at him as he turned to go.

One of the city boys dressed in his groomsman’s outfit with a lurid pink flower pinned to his jacket escorted Mrs. Holmes to a seat in front as John trailed behind. John felt a bit in a spotlight in the second row, and might have skulked off to a seat farther back, but Mrs. Holmes insisted he stay nearby.

Once the music started up, everyone craned their heads around to watch as the groomsmen and bridesmaids filed into the tent in pairs. The bridesmaids had on shocking pink gowns swirling around their ankles, clutching small bundles of varying shades of pink flowers that matching the bright buttonholes pinned on the men’s jackets. Olivia strode in accompanied by one of the shorter city boys, her dress was a slightly paler pink, but she had a wealth of bright magenta flowers in a wreath over her head. She looked quite put out about it all, scowling as she allowed her escort to lead her to the front.

Sherlock appeared toward the end, walking stoically, the pretty brunette with dimples in her cheeks wrapped around his arm. John wanted to trip her, but settled for silently fuming. The music changed as the bride made to come down the aisle. Everyone rose as Evelyn appeared at the door to the tent on the arm of Mr. Holmes, looking radiant in her frothy white dress. They walked slowly down the aisle until Sherlock’s dad could leave her with her intended, and take the seat left open next to Mrs. Holmes.

John was thankful for his seat when he realized he had a perfect spot for ogling Sherlock through the ceremony. He was of course dressed identically to the other groomsmen, but stood half a head taller than any of them, instantly recognizable, a greyhound among the bulldogs.

The bridal couple looked slightly ill, both a bit pale in the face, but they held hands gamely listening as the minister started speaking. He droned on and on, and John found his gaze returning to Sherlock again.

The gorgeous man looked antsy, shifting his weight, adjusting the tie around his neck as though it bothered him. God, John wanted to loosen it for him, unbutton the stiff collar hiding that lovely column of a throat, kiss his way down . . . John shook himself from his reverie as Mrs. Holmes leaned over him, passing her sister a tissue from her handbag. Sherlock looked over, caught John’s gaze and rolled his eyes, miming great boredom.

 _Behave_ , John moved his lips, trying to act stern though a smile tugged at the sides of his mouth.

Finally, the vows were exchanged, kisses given, and a great sweep of music signaled the end of things as the happy couple marched triumphantly down the aisle. John waited, impatiently as the groomsmen and bridesmaids filed back out in reverse order.

“Oh, that was lovely, just lovely.” Mrs. Holmes seemed to be dabbing at her own eyes.

They guests were herded next door to a room in a side building where drinks and nibbles were on offer amidst tall floral displays and more swathes of pink draped about the room. The bridal party stood to receive well wishes against one side. John shuffled along with the crowd alone having lost Sherlock’s parents in the crush. When he came to the attendants standing politely nearby, he instantly zeroed in on Sherlock. An older gentleman was shaking Sherlock’s hand, droning on about how much he’d grown. John could see Sherlock was struggling to respond appropriately.

John moved in next. He scooped up Sherlock’s hand, pumping it heartily.

“Capital, Old Bean, excellent job! Simply smashing!” John grinned. 

“John.” Sherlock’s eyes lit up. A smile tipped his beautiful mouth.

“Yeah, that was great. You looked fantastic.” He ran a thumb over the back of Sherlock’s knuckles.

“Thanks. I’m just glad that’s over.” Sherlock huffed a sigh.

“Do you want something to drink? Something to eat?”

“Just some water would be fantastic.”

“Your wish is my command.” John raised Sherlock’s hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to the back of it. 

Sherlock flushed beautifully.

John fought his way to the bar. All they had was fizzy water, so he requested a beer for himself and a fizzy water for Sherlock. By the time he’d made his way back to the bridal party, the guests had finally all filed into the room, and they were free to mingle. John pressed the glass of water into Sherlock’s hand.

“Oh God, thanks.”

Sherlock drained the drink in one go, the long muscles of his throat working as he swallowed.

John felt a bit faint just watching him. Sherlock belched outrageously then, and looked as if he might melt into the ground. John burst out laughing.

“Smooth, really smooth,” John giggled.

“I’m not fit for polite company,” Sherlock muttered.

“Ah, I like you.” John bumped his shoulder, taking a sip from his glass. “I’ll keep you company.”

“Oh, good. God, that bridesmaid they had me paired up, Giselle or something. She wouldn’t stop talking. I thought I might have to chew my own arm off to get away.”

“Poor thing. She’s quite fit, though.” John admitted, grudgingly, licking his lip.

“Until she opens her mouth,” Sherlock said darkly.

John chuckled, deeply pleased at Sherlock’s answer. A waiter walked by offering a tray of appetizers, and John happily chose a prawn wrapped in bacon. Sherlock waved the man off.

“Christ, that’s good.” John crunched down on the mouthful.

“I can’t wait for this to be over.” Sherlock glanced about the room at all the posh guests mingling, drinking, the occasional burst of laughter punctuating the general buzz of conversation. “Such an over-the-top ritual of conspicuous consumption. Fully half of the food prepared tonight will no doubt go to waste.”

“Ah, well then I’ll have to do my part.” John stopped another staff member holding a tray of nibbles, and selected something piled on a cracker.

John took a bite and had the most horrible flavor and all the salt in the world flood his mouth.

“Eeewww!”

He looked about for somewhere to spit it out, and finding nothing, reluctantly swallowed the horror down. He looked sadly at the half left in his hand. Sherlock reached down and took it from, popping it into his own mouth. He frowned, considering as he chewed.

“Ugh, what was that.” John screwed up his face. Thankfully he still had beer to wash the taste away.

“Caviar,” Sherlock said. “And the good stuff too. Not bad.”

“Ah, well. You can have all of THAT, then. Where’s the lad with the prawns got off to?”

A woman walked by with a tray holding plastic cups of wine and Sherlock accepted one of those.

“Sherlock you looked lovely up there.” Sherlock’s mother appeared beside them. She reached up to pat his cheek.

Sherlock made a face like he’d just sucked on a lemon.

“Doesn’t he look handsome?” She reached up to brush imaginary lint off the front of Sherlock’s jacket.

“He looks gorgeous.” John smiled.

“You both look so handsome,” Mrs. Holmes tutted. “Here, let me get a photo of you.”

She fumbled her camera out of her bag.

“There you go, stand together.”

John slid alongside Sherlock, looping his arm around his waist. Sherlock spread his own arm across John’s back. He could smell the poncy cologne Sherlock had used earlier, but underneath he smelled just a bit sweaty, gloriously musky. John wanted to lick him. They waited, pressed alongside each other while Mrs. Holmes fussed with the device, turning it on. There wasn’t anywhere else John wanted to stand, and yet . . . was it another lie to stand here before Sherlock’s mother, pretending to be close like this? John shook his head mentally. It was just a picture.

 “Mummy, please!” Sherlock whinged. “I think I’ve already stood for a million photos today.”

“Well, I didn’t get one of you and John together. Just hold still.” Finally Mrs. Holmes had the camera in place. The light flashed in John’s eyes, momentarily blinding him, as she snapped her shots.

“Here, I’ll get one with the two of you. Where’s your father gotten off to . . .”

As if on cue, Mr. Holmes arrived, and they had to repeat the process with Mrs. Holmes in between them, and then again with Mr. Holmes. John was beginning to grow weary of picture taking himself when Sherlock accidentally spilled his wine over his jacket.

“Oh dear, you’re all limbs, aren’t you? Here, Siger run and fetch some seltzer water and a napkin.” Mrs. Holmes dispatched her husband. “He was so clumsy when he first got his height.” She confided to John. “Always knocking things over, tripping over his own feet.”

“Mummy, please.” Sherlock looked mortified.

“Of course that was nothing compared to the mess he made with his experiments,” Mrs. Holmes plowed onward. “I think he was two when he decided to test viscosity, and emptied every jar in the kitchen across the floor. I tell you, cook almost quit over that one . . .”

Sherlock shot John a look over his mother’s head, eyebrows raised. _See? I told you._ They both burst out laughing. Thankfully Mr. Holmes returned with the water and the napkin, and Sherlock’s mother set about wiping at his jacket until he knocked her hand away saying he was perfectly capable of doing it himself.

They were called back to the tent to be seated for dinner, and John and Sherlock followed the crowd. John took the opportunity to catch Sherlock’s hand again, threading his fingers into Sherlock’s longer ones. The space had been transformed, the rows of chairs moved to allow an armada of round tables to now fill the space. Big hurricane candles, heaps of pink flowers, and sparkling strands of lights had turned the tent into some kind of fairy bower. John was hotly disappointed when he realized Sherlock had to leave him to join the head table, and he had to find his name amidst the sea of guest tables.

“God, will this ever end.” Sherlock looked a bit panicked.

“Hey, it’s okay. I’ll see you again after dinner.” On impulse, John rocked up onto the balls of his feet and pressed a quick kiss to Sherlock’s lips.

Sherlock stumbled off toward his place as John set to work finding his name at a table with a number of young adults. All single. All women except for one other thin bloke who introduced himself as Lewis, and then pulled out his phone and hardly said another word all evening. It seemed to be up to John to carry the conversation, and he did enjoy chatting with the four women well enough. Still, he kept glancing back at where Sherlock sat across the room with the pretty bridesmaid, Giselle, beside him. Sherlock looked as if he’d finally decided to speak with her as they held an animated conversation, glancing and pointing at people around the room. At one point, she threw her arms around Sherlock and kissed him on the cheek. John frowned, not at all happy to see them making such fast friends. At least the food was good and John was hungry. He made short work of the prime rib and roast potatoes that came his way.

“So, John,” the blonde next to him touched him on the arm. Cecilia, she was called. “What did you think about the Doctor Strange movie that came out?”

“Oh yeah, it was alright.” John took a sip of his wine. “Didn’t read the comics growing up or anything, but yeah it was good.” Truth be told, John had seen it three times. He’d been oddly taken with the lead actor in the movie.

“I preferred Wonder Woman, really,” the ginger-haired woman by her said. “Honestly, that Gal Gadot is amazing.”

“Can you imagine if you could fight like that?” The other woman across the table cooed, _Catherine, Caitlin, Katie_? “Those Amazons. Wow.”

John tuned out the conversation as he glanced back at Sherlock. This time Sherlock was looking his way as well. John mimed hanging himself with a rope. Sherlock’s eyes lit up. John took a chance, and pretended to hold his heart in his hands before spreading them Sherlock’s way. Sherlock pressed his lips together as if trying not to smile. John made a big show of kissing his hand and blowing the kiss toward him. Sherlock did smile then, ducking his face.

“John, who are you making eyes at?” Cecilia chortled beside him.

“My boyfriend,” John said proudly.

A bit of a ripple went through the table.

“Which one is he?” Cecilia asked, craning her neck.

“He’s one of the groomsmen. Dark, curly hair, tall.” John nearly sighed looking back across the room again. Sadly Sherlock was talking with another bridesmaid. “Gorgeous blue eyes.”

“Oooh, I noticed him. He is dishy,” the ginger woman agreed.

John was a bit sad that the conversation around the table then turned to makeup and hair-care products, and he was asked several times what kind of hair mousse he favored. The bride and groom stopped by the table, making their rounds to say hello to everyone. The women bubbled over Evelyn’s dress, and complimented her on the ceremony and the reception. She thanked them all as Nathan got the bloke with this phone to say a few words.

“John, I’m sorry we couldn’t sit you and Sherlock together. I didn’t realize he was actually bringing someone.” Evelyn leaned his way.

“No, it’s alright I understand.” John nodded. “He’s a bit unpredictable.”

“He’s been busy at the table sorting all the bridesmaids with dates, pointing out men he thinks they should go for.” Evelyn giggled. “We’ll have to see if he’s right.”

“Oh, I’m sure he is.” John smiled. “He’s a bloody genius.”

“Hey, Ev.” Nathan touched her arm, nodding his head toward the room.

“Oh, sorry, must dash. John it was really good to meet you.” Evelyn reached for John’s hand. “It’s lovely to see you and Sherlock together.”

“Yeah, thanks.” John shook her hand, swallowing down a gulp. “It was lovely meeting you as well.”

“Perhaps we’ll get a chance to talk more at Christmas. Will you be coming down for that?”

“Oh, I don’t know, I’ll have to see.” John felt a blush climbing up his neck. _Damn._

“Come on, love!” Nathan laughed, tugging at his wife’s hand.

“Cheers!” Evelyn waved at the table as they moved on.

Finally the dinner came to a close, and guests were free to move about. The lights dimmed as space was cleared for dancing. John moved up to the head table, happy to find a space beside Sherlock free. He slipped in beside him.

“Hey.”

“John.” Sherlock looked pleased to see him.

John leaned in again and kissed him quickly.

“John, you don’t have to keep doing that,” Sherlock whispered.

“Don’t have to. I want to.”

Sherlock blushed. John reached over and scooped up his hand. They were both feeling a bit loose on the alcohol they’d consumed.

The DJ called for first dance, and Evelyn and her Uncle Siger, Sherlock’s dad, took to the floor. They looked lovely waltzing together, Mr. Holmes so elegant as he led the smiling bride about in a circle. The song shifted to another, and Evelyn kissed Mr. Holmes on the cheek and turned to dance with her new husband as Mrs. Holmes appeared to pair with her spouse. He opened his arms to accept her and they began to twirl about the floor. John was struck with how beautifully Sherlock’s parents moved together. He commented on it to Sherlock.

“They’ve won awards,” Sherlock confided. “They’ve been dancing together since before I was born. Sometimes they take trips to America to enter dance competitions.”

“That’s fantastic!" John laughed.

Eventually the rest of the party was asked to join in, and several couples flocked to the floor, filling in the space.

“I don’t know how to do that sort of stuff, ballroom dancing.” John tipped his chin toward the dancers.

“It’s not that hard. Anyone can pick up the basics.” Sherlock shrugged.

“Well, easy for you to say, Mr. Ballet Star.”

“Five minutes.”  Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. “All I need is five minutes and I can have you doing a simple box step.” He looked a bit feline, like a great black panther, as he leaned John’s way.

“Alright, you’re on.” John grinned. He stood, and held a hand out to Sherlock.

Sherlock rose fluidly, and together they moved to a darker spot near the shifting bodies. Sherlock showed John how to stand and where to position his hands.

“I’ll lead, watch my feet,” Sherlock said, sliding closer, his hand firmly at John’s back. “You’ll want to mirror me.”

John took a deep breath, catching a whiff of coconuts and tropical flowers, and tried to follow Sherlock’s instruction. At first John stumbled, tripping over Sherlock’s feet. He cursed himself.

“No, no, you’re thinking too hard,” Sherlock spoke against John’s ear over the loud, soppy music. “Just relax and feel where I’m going to go next. My body will telegraph its intent.”

John tried to let go, let the music flow over him, and allowed Sherlock to lead him in a simple pattern.  He grinned when he realized he’d gotten the hang of it. They were actually dancing together.  It was pretty damn awesome being allowed to hold Sherlock so close when they weren’t pretending to be asleep. John could feel the heat of Sherlock straight through his clothes, though he wished there were fewer layers between them.

John closed his eyes and leaned his cheek against Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock seemed to sigh, and hold him a bit closer. John utterly lost track of time, it was just Sherlock in his arms, and the gentle movement of their bodies swaying together. It was a jolt when the music stopped and the DJ  made some joke over the sound system. The dancers stood back and clapped, and then something loud and pounding came on. The older couples drifted away as the younger people came forward to dance.

“Ah well, this is more my thing anyway.” John said loud enough to be heard.

“Fancy another dance?” Sherlock asked.

“Love to!”

They lost their jackets over the back of a chair, rolled up their shirt sleeves, and had at it. John danced with abandon, rolling his hips, swinging his arms, delighting in trying to follow the beautiful moves of Sherlock as he dipped and curved like smoke through the air. The girls from John’s table spilled onto the floor and danced beside them, grinning and laughing. The dance area filled up around them.

A song John knew came on and he cheered. It was something with a good beat, _Girls Like_ , the rappy lyrics slipping in and out of a second synth-pop song the DJ mixed into it, all of it making a river of sound around them. John reached out to grab hold of Sherlock’s hips, moving their pelvises closer, rocking in time together.  Sherlock grinned, widening his stance so they could match up better. John slid his hands down to grasp Sherlock’s beautiful arse as he slotted between his legs. They swung their hips in tandem, circling. John sang along with the lyrics . . .

 _I know what boys like_  
_I know what they want_  
_They want that good thing_  
_They wanna get some_  
_I know what boys like_  
_I know what they want_  
_So go ahead and prove me right_

John tipped his head back and ground against Sherlock with abandon, completely oblivious to anything around them. When the song ended, morphing into something smoother, John realized two pertinent facts, they were both getting hard against each other, and Sherlock’s mother was somewhere nearby.

“Oh God, I’m sorry,” John said against Sherlock’s ear, dropping his hands.

“No need to be sorry,” Sherlock said. “I enjoyed that.”

“Yeah, we best cool it a bit though.” John stepped back.

Sherlock nodded. He looked wild, his curls damp with sweat, clinging to his forehead, his eyes like blue flame. God, John wanted to eat him up. They adjusted themselves as subtly as possible and moved to the bar where they both got a water.

“They’ve got some good alcohol here.” Sherlock said nodding toward the line of bottles behind the counter.

“Oh, what’s the best?”

“That Bushmills looks good.”

“Alright, let’s have one.” John nodded, feeling up for just about anything.

Sherlock turned back and ordered two whiskies. They took the glasses and moved to a table on that side that had been deserted.

“Cheers,” John said clinking the rim of glass to Sherlock’s.

“To your good health.” Sherlock smiled.

The whisky slid down John’s throat, burning a smooth path of fire. _Ahh, delicious._

“Sherlock,” a small voice nearby said. “No one wants to dance with me.”

John lowered his glass to see Olivia standing beside their table. She’d removed the flowers from her hair, and changed out of her pink dress into a long black tunic top and leggings.

“Olivia, of course I’ll dance with you.” Sherlock smiled a loopy grin. “All you have to do is ask.”

“Oh, good, thanks.” She smiled widely.

“John, you don’t mind?” Sherlock looked back with a bit of frown.

“No, of course not. Have fun.” John waved them on, feeling magnanimous.

The music had changed to another slow song, and Sherlock bowed formally to his cousin as she giggled before launching her in a more complicated version of the waltz he'd taught John earlier. John sipped his whisky enjoying the sight of them. Olivia seemed familiar with the steps, and they whirled about quite gracefully, laughing together.  

“That doesn’t look like your usual drink.”

John startled, turning to see that a strange man had slipped into the chair beside him. The low light in the tent had left him half in shadow and all John could truly make out was a very patrician profile.

“Oh, no. Don’t often get Bushmills on a uni budget,” John agreed.

The man held himself stiffly. He had a detached air about him as he glanced about the room. For a moment, John fancied that he might be an anthropologist studying the average mating habits of the British upper class, circa early twenty-first century. John wondered if he were taking notes.

“I see you’re with Sherlock,” the man observed coolly.

“That’s right,” John said. “Do you know him?”

“I’m an interested party.”

“Interested in what?” John frowned. His thoughts were feeling a bit slow and muddled. The loud music didn’t help.

“Interested in his welfare. Exactly how long have you and Sherlock been _going out_?”

“Well, I can’t say that it’s any of your business, eh mate?” John could feel his hackles starting to rise.

“I assure you, I mean no harm. I only have Sherlock’s welfare as my top priority,” the stranger purred.

“Well, Sherlock is doing fine, we’re both doing fine, thanks.” John was starting to find the oddly posh man very irritating. He took a last swallow to finish his glass.

“Since you’re so close to Sherlock, I wonder if you might consider giving me information about him, regular reports. Nothing untoward of course, just how he’s doing at university.” The man leaned a bit closer, steepling his fingers together over the tabletop. “I could pay you a meaningful sum of money for your trouble.”

“Are you mad?” John’s eyebrows crawled up toward his hairline.

“No, far from it, I assure you . . .”

“Mycroft, what the hell are doing with John?” Sherlock loomed over them.

“Nothing harmful, I assure you.” Mycroft sat back in his seat.

“Well if you can call bribing me to spy on Sherlock harmless, I guess so,” John huffed.

“Leave him alone, Mikey,” Sherlock snarled. “Come on, John.”

John didn’t need to be asked twice. He stood to follow Sherlock away.

“Who was that?” John asked.

“My older brother, Mycroft.”

“Oh, THAT was Mycroft. Well. He’s a bit something, isn’t he?”

“You could say that.” Sherlock winced. “I’m sorry he was bothering you.”

“Naw, it’s fine.” John shrugged. “My older sister can be a real pill sometimes. I know how it goes with family.”

Sherlock and John made for the dance floor, dancing another set of songs all in a row, gyrating and sweating happily until John couldn’t have cared less about strange men in shadows. Olivia shared a few dances with them until her mother called her away for bed. They stopped at the bar for another round of whisky before dancing again, repeating the procedure until John had completely lost track of exactly how much spirits they’d poured down their throats.

Finally, when Sherlock and John were exhausted, and the party winding down, most of the guests long gone, one or the other of them announced their intentions to head to bed, and they staggered back toward the hotel. The cool of the night outside the tent sobered them just a bit, but John knew he was still quite pissed.

“I know what boys like . .  I know what they want . .” John crooned, half-tripping over his own feet.

“Steady on.” Sherlock slipped an arm around John to keep him upright.

“I know what boys like, they want to get some . . .” John sang.

“You have a nice voice.” Sherlock smiled.

“Thanks, you have a  nice . . . everything.”

John felt a bit as if he were swimming to pass through the lobby into the lift.  They tried to move quietly, smothering giggles until the door shut. They leaned against the back wall letting laughter ripple over them, finding everything and nothing hilariously funny. John could see them reflected together in the mirrored wall of the lift, smears of black and white, tall and short.

“You’re too tall,” John mumbled.

“Too tall for what?” Sherlock frowned.

“Too tall for this.” John reached up and pulled Sherlock down so he could kiss him, kiss him properly, tongues winding together.

They broke apart, blinking when the lift doors opened. Somehow they made it down the corridor, unlocked the door and spilled into their hotel room.

John pulled off his jacket, and dropped it to the back of a chair. By the light of a small bedside lamp they’d left on, he moved to collapse over the beckoning bed. He rolled onto his back and starfished over the mattress, letting his limbs sprawl.

“God, this is a great bed.”

“John.” Sherlock appeared to stand over him. “Move over.”

“Can’t. Too much gravity.”

“Joooohn.” Sherlock stuck out his lower lip.

John stayed where he was, willfully ignoring him until Sherlock attempted to scoop him up and relocate him manually to one side. John lay like a sack of potatoes, giggling uproariously when long fingers accidentally dug at his ribs. He reached up to tickle Sherlock under his arms in retaliation, and it became an all-out tussle, hands finding vulnerable spots as they sought and attacked. Sherlock collapsed down, laughing in great wheezing waves. When John stopped to catch his breath, he realized  Sherlock was sprawled over him, long legs tangled with his own. Sherlock lifted his head, panting. His hair was a bloody mess, his eyes blown wide, deep, dark pools. John couldn’t have found him more beautiful.

“Sherlock.” John lifted a hand to gently cup his jaw, running his thumb along that gorgeous angle of a cheekbone.

“John,” Sherlock breathed.

They were kissing then. John had no idea who had moved first, but suddenly they were devouring each other in great hot, melting kisses that burned straight through his soul. It seemed like John might just die if he couldn’t lay his fingertips to Sherlock’s skin. Kissing, always kissing, they somehow managed to pull at layers, buttons, too many buttons, laughing and tugging, each piece removed unceremoniously and tossed off the side of the bed. Finally they were down to pants. John reveled in sliding as much of his skin as he could against Sherlock.

“Oh, God.”

“Mmmm, yeah, Lovely.” John kissed wherever he could reach, his tongue leaving trails over Sherlock’s perfect skin.

They managed to pull back the duvet and burrow under together.  John ran his mouth over Sherlock’s neck, finally able to give it the love it deserved. He moved to suck at the spot where it sloped into his gorgeous shoulders, and Sherlock groaned, something deep and seismic, his hands cradling John’s arse, pulling him close. They rocked together, a heat building, sparking embers that had simmered between them all day. John made sounds, high and desperate as Sherlock kneaded at his sensitive flesh. John rolled back slightly, worked his hands down, down, finally slipping under Sherlock’s waistband, his fingers finding soft skin and coarse hair.

“Please?” John’s hand hovered.

“Yes, yes, God, yes.”

John plunged his hand down and closed it over Sherlock’s hard cock. A shiver ran over them both. John held it, feeling a reverence flow through him.

“Oh Baby,” John mumbled, “Sweetheart.”

His lips pressed to Sherlock’s throat as his hand squeezed over his shaft, reaching as well as he could with cotton trapping his wrist.

“Can I?” John tugged at Sherlock’s underwear.

“Yes, please.”

John rolled back, reaching to slide Sherlock’s briefs over his arse down to his legs. Sherlock wriggled them further along to kick them off somewhere in the sheets.

“You too,” Sherlock breathed, his big hand cradling John’s hip.

“God, yes.”

Sherlock slid long fingers under John’s pants, slipping them down and off as John moved his legs to help. Sherlock held them up like a trophy, grinning wickedly as he tossed them far across the room.

“God, come here, you.” John tugged him back down.

It was heaven, warm, melting, skin-on-fire heaven to rock together, cocks pressed tightly between them. John moved to lick across his palm before reaching down to gather Sherlock’s erection in his palm.

“Uuunnggggh,” Sherlock moaned, shaking under the touch.

John murmured something, anything against his skin as his hand moved, picking up speed, working the hot flesh, silk over steel. He felt a burst of pride as Sherlock gasped and exploded under his hand, hot come slipping between his fingers.

“God, God.” Sherlock nearly choked, his head tipping back as tendons stood out in his gorgeous neck.

When it was over, John held him close, nuzzling at him, wiping his hand without a thought over the sheets to smooth his palm over Sherlock’s warm back.

“You Angel,” John murmured, petting him over and over, following the line of his back down over his arse.

“You too, John.” Sherlock blinked his gorgeous, sea glass eyes open. “Let me touch you.”

“Yes, please.”

Sherlock went exploring, his beautiful mouth and fingers moving over John, lips and tongue caressing every inch they came to. John closed his eyes and groaned, simply adrift in a sea of sensation lapping over him. He cried out when a mouth closed over a nipple and sucked. Inexorably, the warm softness moved down his chest and belly, sliding and slipping until the most glorious wet heat engulfed his cock.

“Oh, fuck, yes!” John reached out, burying his fingers in a soft mass of curls as Sherlock’s mouth worked over him.

John lost all sense of time, all sense of himself, everything was pleasure, and good, and Sherlock. John rocked up gently, feeling as though he were melting, losing his edges, running into Sherlock until they were one being with no beginning or ending between them, moving in tandem. John came with a roar that hurt his throat. When Sherlock reappeared it was with a smug smile.

“Was that good?” His voice sounded like honey over gravel.

“God, that was perfect, come here, come here.”

John gathered Sherlock against him. He kissed him deeply, tasting himself on Sherlock’s tongue. It was filthy and erotic, and John groaned from the bottom of his soul. He would have gotten hard again if he weren’t feeling as if every muscle had dissolved.

“Baby.” John snuffled into Sherlock’s neck, holding him close.

“John,” Sherlock agreed, wrapping all his limbs around him, cocooning him.

John drifted into darkness, feeling more content than he could ever remember, the last sensation he registered, a pair of full lips pressing gently against his forehead.

“Good night, John.”

“Mmmmm.”

John snuggled into the duvet, into Sherlock, and was gone, slipping into peace.

 

~@~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There you go, my fine readers. These two knuckleheads finally got naked between the sheets together! Much excite. Let's throw flower petals into the air. Wheeeee! ;)


	13. Thirteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to all of you lovely readers who decided to follow along with a WIP. This fic started as a Secret Santa gift in December, and I fooled myself into thinking I'd have this done and dusted in a couple of weeks. HA. Famous last words. However this journey of our two unilock lads is drawing to a close. If you'll notice, I've marked that we have one more chapter to go. Hope you enjoy the winding down. Let me know if you see any typos, my editing has been minimal! Cheers! :D

~@~

John woke gradually feeling the softness under him, and an insistent pounding at his temples. He cracked an eye only to feel the throbbing intensify. He instantly closed it again, and smacked his dry lips, trying to get his tongue unstuck from the roof of his mouth. John shifted under the sheets, realized he was completely nude, and suddenly remembered the evening before . . . in as much scattered detail as his foggy brain could provide  . . . which was still quite nice.

“Sherlock?” John groaned, groping around beside him.

The space was empty. With great effort, John rolled onto his side ignoring the swoop of nausea that came with it, and opened his eyes to scan the rest of the bed. Empty. Squinting into the unforgiving daylight flooding the room, he found the rest of the room to be sadly Sherlock-free as well. _No, no, no._

With Herculean strength of will, John rolled himself to the edge of the mattress, got his legs under him and staggered starkers toward the loo.  Sadly there was no Sherlock in the bathroom either, but John managed to use the toilet, wash his face and hands, and gulp water straight from the tap until he felt slightly more human. His head still ached, but at least he could bear to keep his eyes most of the way open.

“Shit.” _Where the hell was Sherlock?_

John returned to bedroom, standing with his hands on his hips, looking around stupidly as if his crumpled clothes on the floor would give him a clue as to where Sherlock had gone. John sighed. He ground the heels of his hands into his aching eyes. He moved to the window where they’d left the curtains open overnight thinking to close them. Glancing down over the beautiful scenery that his headache didn’t let him appreciate, John spied a tall figure in a long dark coat on the grounds below, striding away toward the woods.

“Goddamit.”

In an instant, John was scrabbling up clothes from wherever he could find them, pulling things on, hopping into his shoes without socks. He tore out of the room, pounding down the stairs at the end of the corridor, unwilling to spend even an extra second waiting for the lift. Every moment that passed seemed significant, as if he were letting Sherlock drift farther and farther away. John hurried past the few people in the lobby hurtling toward the back. He pushed the door open already running, falling easily into a rhythm as his feet hit the ground.

“Hey, John!” someone called from the courtyard, one of the girls from his table last night.

John waved absentmindedly, and continued on, picking up his pace. He wasn’t even sure what he was going to say when he reached Sherlock, but he knew he had to try, he had to say something. If Sherlock pushed away from him again, after last night, John thought he might have to die. He reached the woods, pounding past the trees, not letting up, pushing himself, faster, faster. The leaves opened up to blue sky, revealing the pond ahead, and there he was on a wooden bench, a hunched-over gargoyle in a long coat, chin propped on his knees. 

_Sherlock._

John pulled up beside him, suddenly realizing how winded he was. He bent, hands on his knees trying to catch his breath.

“John, is something wrong?” Sherlock uncoiled, dropping his feet to the ground, alarm writ across his face.

John shook his head, breathless. For a moment, he thought he might vomit, his abused system making its complaints known. He swallowed deeply.

“You weren’t there,” he wheezed, “when I woke.”

“Oh.” Sherlock frowned. “I needed to think. I didn’t want to wake you.”  

“Hey.” John straightened. “That’s fine. I just didn’t want you to . . .” John waved a hand. “Push me away. Run away again.”

“John.” Sherlock looked wary. “While I appreciate what you did this weekend, I have no illusions . . .”

“No, don’t do that.” John shook his head. It felt as though something were rattling loose. “Christ, my head hurts.” John dropped onto the bench beside Sherlock, rubbing at his forehead.

Sherlock slipped his hands into his pockets to extract a small bottle of paracetamol and a half a bottle of water that he passed to John. “There’s a small shop downstairs.”

“Oh, God, thank you.” John gratefully shook out two tablets and washed them down with a long swig of the water.  He passed the packet of pills back but kept the water for another swallow. When he made to hand it back, Sherlock waved him off.

“You can finish it.”

“Thanks.” John drained it.

“John, I apologize.” Sherlock’s beautiful eyes looked blue green in the soft morning light. “I thought I could be rational about this, that we could enjoy each other’s company for the weekend with no consequence, but I neglected to factor in the romantic nature of the venue and the event . . .”

“Sherlock, God, hold on. What are you apologizing for?”

“Me, I’m apologizing for me. If I’ve led you on, I’m sorry.”

John felt as though a lance had just embedded itself in his chest. “Oh, right.” He looked down at the empty bottle grasped in his hand. It crunched as his grip tightened “Is this where you tell me you don’t really feel that way about me, and we can just be friends? I’m alright as a weekend boyfriend, but you don’t want to be seen with a footballer on a permanent basis?”

“What?” Sherlock squawked. “John, you knew this weekend was all a ruse.” Sherlock stiffened. “Besides there’s nothing wrong with your being a football player. You’re perfect, there’s nothing wrong with you. It’s me.”

“Okay, I get it . . .” John nodded sadly. “You aren’t attracted to me that way . . .”

“John, don’t you see? It won’t _work_.” Sherlock reached out to grab John’s forearm, drawing his gaze back to his beautiful, sculpted face. “Please don’t doubt yourself. You’re an intelligent, entertaining, attractive man. Anyone on campus would be beyond lucky to have you.”

“Anyone but you, you mean?” John felt as though his heart were sinking toward his toes.

“John, people like me well enough when I can help them in academic situations, but my interpersonal skills leave something to be desired.” Sherlock’s eyes looked luminous, huge wells of stormy seas. “I can’t . . . do that to you.”

“Do what? Give me a chance? Give us a chance?”  John dropped the water bottle to take Sherlock’s hand in his own. It was ice cold. “Sherlock, please. Please let me try. Let us try.”  John warmed his frozen hand between his palms, something like hope kindling inside his chest.

“John, I don’t do well with people. I’m a high-functioning sociopath, unpleasant, rude, uncaring. I can’t burden you with that.” Sherlock stared at John’s tanned hands surrounding his long, pale one.

John barked a short laugh. “Sherlock, I’ve lived you with for the better part of a term, I think I know you by now. That isn’t you.” John released Sherlock’s hand, reaching for the other.

“Of course it is. I’m an arsehole with everyone.” Sherlock allowed John to chafe his other hand.

“Well, yes, I’ll grant you can be short with people when you’re in a mood, but you’re kind. You help people all the time. There’s nothing unfeeling about you, Love.”

“John, I . . .”

“Just tell me one thing, Sherlock Holmes.” John swallowed at the lump forming in his throat, his grip tightening on Sherlock’s hand. “Look me in the eye and tell me that you don’t care for me, and I won’t bother you again. I’ll find another place to stay when we get back to uni. I won’t darken your door again.”

“I can’t tell you that.” A pained expression crossed Sherlock's face. “I mean, I do care, John of course I do. It’s just that, I’ll bollocks it all up. I don’t know how . . . to do this.” 

“Do you think I do?” John asked quietly.

“You’ve dated. You’ve had relationships . . .” Sherlock snorted.

“That’s right, a few, but I’ve never felt about any of them the way I feel about you.” John let his thumb trace gently over the line of Sherlock’s knobby knuckles. “Look, I’m scared as well, Sweetheart. This is new for me, too.”

“You keep calling me those names.” Sherlock peered at John’s face. “They were meant as a joke . . . for the weekend.”

“It’s not a joke how I feel about you, but I don’t have to use the names if you don’t like them.”

“No . . . it’s fine.” Sherlock smiled shyly. “Just not the horrid ones.”

“I can’t call you Schmoopsie poo?” John let the side of his mouth tip up, the beginnings of relief sliding over him.

“Ugh.” Sherlock mock shuddered.

“Sherlock?” John hated the wobble in his voice. “Can I kiss you?”

A look of soft wonder stole over Sherlock’s face as his lips parted slightly. “Yes,” he breathed.

John leaned forward slowly to brush his lips gently against Sherlock’s. Soft, so soft. John reached up, cupping the side of his face, his fingers sliding back to wind their way into curls. Sherlock made a tiny sound, just a gasp really, and without even meaning to, John tilted, pressing in, and the kiss deepened to some hot and urgent. His hands grabbed at Sherlock’s coat as he surged in, nearly climbing into his lap in his need to be closer. Sherlock’s arms slid around him, holding him tightly, not a sliver of space left between them. John devoured his beautiful man for minutes or hours, the two of them lost in a world of their own until a loud shriek of laughter pulled them away.

John glanced over, irritated, to see one of the bridesmaids walking along, hand in hand with one of the groomsmen. They seemed quite delighted with each other, talking animatedly as they strolled along.

“I heard you were matchmaking last night.” John tipped his head toward the couple. “Seems like that one stuck.”

“It wasn’t hard.” Sherlock looked like someone who’d just been thoroughly snogged, eyes alight, lips pink and swollen. “They were all hoping to pull last night. I just helped it along.”

“Is that so?” John reached up to run his thumb along Sherlock’s lower lip. Suddenly, he felt a serious weight settle over him. He was grateful the ache in his head had eased.

“Sherlock, I’m sorry I was rat-arsed the first time we really . . . look, I want to do this right.” John felt his voice dropping to something deep and gravely. He lifted one of Sherlock’s hands, dropping a kiss to the back of it. “Will, you come back to bed, Love?”

Sherlock swallowed, the muscles in his long throat making his adam’s apple bob. His liquid blue eyes searched over John’s face.

“God, yes,” Sherlock breathed.

“Good.” John grinned, rising to his feet to hold a palm out to Sherlock.

They started back on the path, hands wrapped tightly together. The other couple noticed them, waved, and a purely ridiculous amount of small talk had to be entered into as the woman thanked Sherlock profusely for setting them up the night before.

“It was nothing,” Sherlock demurred.

“We just needed a little queer eye for the straight guy, huh?” The city boy said, Rupert, John recalled his name, the one he’d been stuck chatting with at the rehearsal dinner.

“Yeah, well, good luck with things. Cheers!” John tugged on Sherlock’s hand, urging them to walk along, waving good-bye.

“How did you know?” John asked as they moved away.

“Know what?” Sherlock murmured.

“How were you able to set those people up?”

“It’s not rocket science, John, gland games. You can see who is watching who, how the gaze lingers. Factoring in basic personality, age and intelligence or lack thereof. One can reasonably predict how the relationship will go.”

“Yeah?” John marveled at the amazing man beside him. “What about me? I’ve been gone on you since about the first day I met you. You weren’t able to factor that in?”

“I’ll admit to having some subjective bias in situations involving myself.” Sherlock flushed slightly over his cheekbones. “I’m not always sure if I’m correctly observing or projecting wishful thinking.”

“Hey, come here.” John rocked up on to the balls of his feet to reach Sherlock and steal another kiss. It went on a bit longer than originally planned.

“I am as well, you know,” Sherlock said when they finally parted.

“What?” John blinked, smiling, his mind a pleasant blank.

“Gone on you, too. I’m sorry if I didn’t realize the sentiment was mutual earlier.”

“Ah, well, I can think of a few ways you can make it up to me. It includes you, me, and that big bed upstairs.” John was pleased to see the shiver that ran through Sherlock at his words.

“Yes, that. Now.” Sherlock licked his beautiful lips.

“Yeah, come on.”

John took Sherlock’s hand again, hurrying them along. He’d left the room without a coat, and realized that when he wasn’t sprinting flat out, or half in Sherlock’s lap snogging him, he was growing quite chilly.

“Wait.” Sherlock paused to unbutton his long black, coat. “You look cold,” he said by way of explanation as he held the garment open.

“Thanks, Sweetheart.” John slid in beside him, wrapping an arm around his skinny hips. “It’s brass monkeys out here today.”

“Those are my trousers, aren’t they?” Sherlock chuckled as he wound his arm around John.

“Oh, God. They are. I thought the waist was a bit tight.” John looked down at the black trouser legs pooling up over his trainers. “I saw you out the window, and I was in such a hurry to reach you, I just grabbed whatever was close.”

“I wasn’t going far,” Sherlock said as they walked along in tandem. “It’s a closed path that loops back.”

“I know.” John squeezed him a bit tighter. “I just . . . woke up in bed alone and I guess I panicked a bit.”

“I’m sorry. I needed a moment. I didn’t know what to do. I had hopes, but I was afraid last night was . . .” he trailed off.

“What, a product of too much whisky?”

“Yes. I was afraid it was just  . . .  a one off. A mistake.”

“No, never.” John felt another lump growing his throat. “Sherlock, you are best thing that’s ever happened to me. You have to know that.”

“John . . .” Sherlock’s eyes were soft when he turned to face him.

Suddenly, they were kissing deeply again, wrapped up together under the open folds of Sherlock’s long coat. John wanted him badly, wanted to crawl up under his posh clothes and lick every inch of that gorgeous, pale skin . . .

“Oh, THERE you two are!” Sherlock’s mother’s voice rang out sharp and clear.

John looked up, blinking and realized they’d made it up to the courtyard behind the hotel.

“Come along. Everyone’s at breakfast, and they’ve all been asking for you.” Mrs. Holmes waved them toward the door.

“Well, I . . .” Sherlock looked flummoxed. “John, are you hungry?”

“Yeah, sure I could . . .”

“Well, of course he’s hungry.” Mrs. Holmes shooed them along. “Come on, people will have to leave soon, and they’ll want to say good-bye.”

“Yes, alright, Mummy,” Sherlock bristled.

“John, is that hemline some sort of new style?” Mrs. Holmes peered down at the fabric bunched over John’s feet. “It looks inconvenient. A tailor could certainly help adjust those   . . . oh no, those are Sherlock’s trousers, aren’t they?”

“Yes, I accidentally borrowed them this morning,” John said, as Sherlock blurted “I lent them to John!” at the same moment. 

“That’s fine then. Never mind. Oh, there’s your father.”

Sherlock looked embarrassed at his mother’s fussing, but John just smiled, and reached to take his hand as they moved toward the restaurant where Mr. Holmes was indeed waiting.

“Good morning, boys.” Mr. Holmes beamed. “You looked like you two were having fun last night. I’d have thrown out my back dancing like that.”

“Oh, yeah, it was great.” John hoped fervently that Sherlock’s parents hadn’t been watching when they’d been grinding at each other on the dance floor.

Sherlock just rolled his eyes. They moved together into the crowded restaurant. A hostess took Sherlock’s coat before they found seats and joined the queue for the buffet. Sherlock’s mother pulled him aside though, insisting that he needed to see some cousin or other before they left.

“We might as well get food,” Mr. Holmes said with a wink. “No telling how long all these good-byes are going to take.”

“Sure.” John nodded, reaching for a plate. He’d been feeling peaky when he woke, but things had settled, and his hunger had definitely kicked in.

When they returned to the table, loaded down with selections, Sherlock’s odd, older brother had materialized in one of the chairs, sipping at a cup of tea whilst reading something on his phone.

“Mycroft, so glad you could join us.” Mr. Holmes patted him warmly on the shoulder.

“Of course.” Mycroft looked only slightly discomforted at the touch. He slipped his phone away.

“You’ve met John, haven’t you?” Sherlock’s father waved genially toward John as he seated himself.

“Yes, we met last night,” John said quickly, settling all his things at his place.

“Goodness, you’ve quite an appetite.” Mycroft raised his eyebrows at the two plates and bowl of porridge John had balanced back from the buffet.

“Yup. Starving,” John agreed, grabbing a bottle of brown sauce to dump over his eggs.

“Aren’t you eating, son?” Mr. Homes leaned toward Mycroft.

“I’ve ordered a fruit and yogurt cup,” Mycroft replied primly.

When Sherlock returned to plop into the seat next to John it was with a curl to his lovely lip.

“Oh God, Mycroft. I thought you’d returned to London by now.”

“I have a few hours before I need to leave,” Mycroft said, raising an eyebrow.

A waitress delivered Mycroft’s order, and offered tea all the way around. John gratefully accepted a cup, happy to have the warm, liquid gold flowing down his throat. It chased away the last of the cobwebs from his brain. Mrs. Holmes appeared with a fresh waffle, and surveyed the lack of open chairs.

“Shall we push another table together?” she asked brightly.

“No, no, take mine,” Sherlock said, popping up to drag a spare chair over. He squeezed himself in at the corner, against John’s elbow.

“Aren’t you eating, dear?” Mrs. Holmes asked.

“Not hungry.” Sherlock waved the idea away, reaching for his tea.

As Mr. and Mrs. Holmes began grilling Mycroft about his upcoming schedule, John nudged Sherlock’s leg under the table, running the side of his hand up his thigh. John could feel the want for him banked low in his belly, still simmering.

_God he was a beautiful thing, all long limbs, and stunning cheekbones. Posh boy._

Sherlock smiled at him over the rim of his cup. John passed him a muffin from one of his plates wordlessly, and Sherlock accepted it, peeling away the paper to take a bite. Sherlock motioned to his upper lip as he looked pointedly at John, and John lifted his napkin, wiping the smear off his mouth. Sherlock dropped a hand to cover John’s knee. John couldn’t stop himself from leaning in to kiss Sherlock’s cheek. Sherlock nearly giggled.

“My God. Must you two do that at the _breakfast_ table?” Mycroft dipped a spoon angrily into his tiny bowl of yogurt. “It’s unseemly.”

“Just because your recent diet has left you churlish,” Sherlock began hotly, “is no reason . . .”.

“Enough,” Mrs. Holmes snapped. “I think the boys are sweet together, Mycroft. Can we please be civil through one meal?”  

“I don’t know. Can we?” Sherlock muttered, cutting Mycroft a sharp glance.

“Sherlock,” Mr. Holmes admonished in a stern voice.

Sherlock curled deeper into his chair, taking refuge behind his tea.

“Well, that was a lovely ceremony yesterday, wasn’t it?” John said cheerfully, looking about.

“I certainly thought so,” Mrs. Holmes said. “I wasn’t sure about all that pink at first, but then later I decided . . .”

As Sherlock’s mother launched into a spirited dissection of the previous day’s wedding, John reached down to find Sherlock’s long fingers. He gave his hand a quick squeeze. Sherlock flashed him a grateful look.  

A number of people stopped by their table to speak, old friends, acquaintances, distant family. Mr. and Mrs. Holmes kept popping up to shake hands or hug them, chatting a moment until the next visitor arrived and it all repeated. John smiled pleasantly and waved occasionally as needed between bites. Mycroft looked a bit ill but greeted everyone well enough, while Sherlock slumped more sullenly into his seat, propping his legs up before him. He accepted John’s second muffin only to pick desultory pieces off with his long fingers. Finally they seemed to have run out of people to say good-bye to, and John had scraped the last of his porridge clean.

“When is your train, dear?” Mrs. Holmes leaned over to address Sherlock. “Daddy and I can give you a lift to the station.”

“Actually.” Sherlock cleared his throat, dropping his feet to the floor to sit upright. “John and I were thinking of doing a late check-out, having another swim in the pool. We can catch a cab when we need to go.”

“A swim.” Mycroft snorted quietly into his tea.

Sherlock shot him a dirty look.

“Oh, you’re sure you don’t need us to stay? It’s no problem . . .” Mrs. Holmes said.

“Violet, they’re old enough to take care of themselves,” Mr. Holmes said quietly, touching her arm.

“Yeah, no worries, we’ll be fine.” John chimed in, keeping his face as innocent as he could. “I do appreciate all your help though. It was lovely meeting you all.”

“Oh, John. It was fabulous meeting you.”

Suddenly John found himself being embraced, his face squashed against Mrs. Holmes’ floral-scented cardigan as she patted at his back.

“Erm, thank you.” John sat back awkwardly when she finally released him.

“John, take care, son.” Mr. Holmes had moved around the table to shake his hand. “You’re always welcome with us. Whenever.”

“Thank you, sir.” John felt a lump rising in his throat.

“It was a pleasure, John.” Mycroft extended his hand across the table next.

Sherlock screwed his face up in obvious displeasure as John leaned in to take it.

“Yeah, thanks.” Sherlock looked so put out, John struggled not to laugh. “It was . . . interesting meeting you, Mycroft.”

It was possible that Mycroft looked slightly embarrassed.

Mrs. Holmes’ phone rang, and she fiddled it out of her bag before having a quick conversation.

“That was your Aunt Lily. You need to say good-bye before they go.”

“Yes, alright, fine, fine. I wonder if we can find yet MORE new people I can meet for the expressed purpose of needing to bid farewell to them five minutes later?” Sherlock huffed.

“Behave. It’s nearly over.” Mrs. Holmes swatted at him.

Sherlock retrieved his coat, and they lingered in the lobby until Sherlock’s Aunt Lily and cousin Olivia appeared. Mycroft excused himself saying he had a conference call to take, as Mr. and Mrs. Holmes fell into conversation with another couple. Sherlock and John found a love seat beside a large potted plant to share. It didn’t offer much privacy, but it was the best on offer.

“Fancy a swim?” John whispered in Sherlock’s ear. “A swim in my pants?”

“John.” Sherlock ducked his head, increasing his chins thricefold. “I had to say something.”

John thought he looked adorable.

“I thought it was brilliant. A brilliant thing for my brilliant, sexy boyfriend to say.”

“Am I your boyfriend?”  Sherlock looked up, surprised.

“I hope so. Do I need to get on my knee and ask?” John teased. He reached out to take his hand. “Sherlock, will you do me the extreme honor of being my fabulous, brilliant, gorgeous, amazing real-life boyfriend?”

“I’m not all those things.” Sherlock shook his head.

“You are to me, Sweetheart.”

“Alright,” Sherlock took a deep breath, “but only if you’ll be my insightful, kind, fabulously fit, beautiful-voiced, intelligent boyfriend.”

It was John’s turn to be surprised. “You think I’m all those things?”

“I know you are.” Sherlock’s smile lit up his noon-sky eyes.

John didn’t mean to kiss Sherlock in the lobby in front of everyone pulling their bags past, but before he knew it, they were twined together, and John was dissolving under Sherlock’s sweet kisses, those plump lips caressing his over and over. _God, he wanted to get even closer_ . . .

“Eeeewww, they’re kissing AGAIN.”

They broke apart to find Olivia staring them down, hands on her hips.

“Oh God, sorry!” John laughed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Yes, so sorry, terribly rude of us,” Sherlock said, not sounding sorry at all.

Despite Sherlock’s earlier churlishness about having to talk with so many people, he rose to speak to Olivia kindly, checking in about things, and reminding her that she wouldn’t have her terrible maths teacher forever.  When his Aunt Lily reached them, it was hugs all around.

“John, it was so nice to meet you. You’ll take care of this one, yes?” Lily tipped her head toward Sherlock. “I know he’s not always easy, but he needs someone. Keep him in line.” She winked.

“No, he’s fine, Sherlock is great. I mean of course . . .” John stumbled over his words.

“AUNT LILY.” Sherlock’s face had flushed hotly.

“Who knows, maybe we’ll be back here for another wedding?” She lifted both eyebrows.

“Oh, wouldn’t that be lovely.” Sherlock’s mother moved in to join the conversation. “Perhaps they’d give us a discount for a second family wedding. What do you think, John? Do you like the place?”

John opened and closed this mouth like a fish, his brain on standstill.

“That’s it! No one is allowed to speak to John again.” Sherlock angled himself to stand slightly in front. “You’re all being utterly insufferable, and unspeakably crass!”

“Oh, we’re only teasing you,” Aunt Lily smiled, waving a hand.

“Yes, lighten up, dear.” Sherlock’s mum patted his arm absentmindedly as she pushed past him.

“John, safe travels.”  She pulled him into another hug. “Don’t hurt him.” She whispered into his ear.

“No, never, I mean yes . . . thank you.” John sputtered as she pulled away.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes sharply at his mother, but she’d moved on to hug Olivia good-bye, and the moment passed. Finally, finally, they’d bid everyone good farewell, and were free to escape. Sherlock stopped at the front desk, requesting a later check-out time and another key to the room when John realized he’d bolted out without taking their key earlier.

They waited at the lift, nearly quivering in anticipation when the door opened revealing Sherlock’s Aunt Rose, and his rude cousins, Alasdair and Tilly. Alasdair cut them a quick glance, and sneered. Ugh. John’s good mood plummeted.

“Oh, Sherlock, there you are. I’m so glad I caught you.” Rose swept out of the lift, dragging a large magenta-coloured bag behind her. Her children followed, negotiating their own luggage.

“Mum, I’m going to check us out,” Alasdair touched his mother’s arm, and then moved toward the front desk.

“Yes, dear, of course.” Rose waved him on.

“Now, Sherlock, I wanted to let you know, we’re throwing a party for Tilly’s twenty-first in February.” Sherlock’s Aunt crowded in, edging John aside. “It’s going to be marvelous. You simply must come.”

“We’re renting a hall, and daddy knows someone who knows Adele, and she’s going to come sing for us.” Tilly’s long, horsey face looked almost pretty as she flushed excitedly.

“Only the best people will be there. So many young people.” Aunt Rose smiled. “Who knows? You might meet someone special.”

“I already have someone special,” Sherlock said, reaching back to drag John closer, linking their hands. “I have John.”

“Oh, John.” Rose peered more closely at him as if she wasn’t quite sure what to make of him. Her eyes ran the length of him, stopping on the too-long trousers he was nearly tripping on. “Ah, how nice.” Her voice said anything but.

“Yeah, hi. Good morning. We met earlier.” John struggled to produce a smile.

“Ah yes. Well, you’re still young. Always nice to keep your options open, hmm?” Rose turned back toward Sherlock. “Tilly can send you an invitation via that email business. Things have changed so much since my day, I can tell you. It was only the best stationery once, now it’s all simply pushing buttons.” She mimed typing on a keyboard.

“Yes, thank you. I’ll have to check my schedule,” Sherlock muttered.

“We’re all set, Mum.” Alasdair reappeared.

“Oh good. Well, it was lovely to see you, dear.” Sherlock’s aunt made a grand production of kissing him on both cheeks. She ignored John entirely even though she had to lean past him to reach Sherlock.

Finally once good-byes were grudgingly said all around, the group moved on leaving Sherlock and John alone before the lift. They said nothing as it opened, disgorging a couple with a ton of baggage. When the lift was free, they moved inside. John leaned in to punch the button for the right floor.

 “I’m sorry about all that,” Sherlock said once the doors slid closed. “My family is nearly unbearable at times.”

“No, it’s fine. I know all about pushy relatives. Nothing like a few aunties in your face to make you question all of your life choices.”

“John, my aunt is a bit of an arse. I don’t need to meet anyone else.”

“Yeah, it’s fine. I understand.”

“Okay.”

John reached out to take Sherlock’s hand again, giving it a reassuring squeeze. The lift let them out into the corridor to their room for perhaps the last time. Sherlock opened the door with his key, ushering John in ahead of him. The room was still large and hushed, but much less pristine than when they had first arrived, clothes and things scattered across the room, and the bedding all tumbled to the side.

“It’s been a lovely room.” John turned to face Sherlock.

“It has. Thank you for sharing it with me.” Sherlock fiddled with the key, finally moving to place it on the dresser.

“It was my pleasure,” John said, moving to sit on the edge of the bed. He toed off his trainers, watching as Sherlock went to hang his coat up in the wardrobe, taking his time.

“We have a few hours, and then we’ll need to pack and get out.” Sherlock said, shutting the wardrobe door.

“Oh good, whatever will we do with the time?” John unhooked the slightly too-tight waist of Sherlock’s trousers, shimmied them off, and leaned back across the bed in his jumper and pants.

Sherlock returned to stand before him. He seemed not to know what to do with this hands. He settled for shoving them into his pockets, rocking back on his heels as he eyed the floor.

“John, I’m sorry, I know we’ve already . . .” Sherlock cleared his throat. “. . . that is to say . . . I’m feeling a bit . . .” Sherlock glanced up at him briefly. “I’m not . . .” he trailed off, a worried crinkle appearing between his brows.

“Hey, it’s okay.” John sat back upright. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

John stood and pulled him into a hug. He smoothed a hand down Sherlock’s back as Sherlock relaxed a bit against him, his arms coming to encircle John's waist.

“Alright, okay.” Sherlock nodded.

“We can just watch some telly,” John said, giving him a final squeeze before stepping back. “Oh, and we can also have some of this.” He moved to pick up the bottle of champagne they’d left on the desk.

“It isn’t chilled,” Sherlock said.

“I think we can manage, Posh Boy.” John smiled fondly.

“Oh, alright.”

“Ooh, better yet, let’s take a bath and have the champagne.”

“Together?” Sherlock frowned.

“The bath is big enough for two. Besides, perhaps we can manage a bit of _swimming_ while we’re in there.”

Sherlock let out a laugh. “Yes, alright.”

“Hey, grab those glasses, will you?” John nodded to the flute glasses that had been left with the champagne as he padded barefoot into the ensuite.

John set the bottle on the armoire against the wall, and moved to turn on the taps to fill the large, white, claw-footed tub, the water making a pleasant gurgle as it fell. Sherlock entered, placing the glasses beside the champagne as John rifled through the bottles of toiletries to find the shower gel.

“Yeah, I used part of this yesterday. There’s enough for another bath.” John moved to upend the bottle, squeezing the remaining  gel into the running stream.

“That smells nice.” Sherlock stood nearby. “What is it.”

“Bee Kind,” John read the label. “It’s got lemon verbena and honey in it.”

They both watched the bubbles foaming up in the swirling water for a moment.

“You’re my Honey,” John smiled, reaching over to trail a finger down Sherlock’s arm.

“Does that make you my Lemon Verbena?” Sherlock quirked a smile.

“If you like.” John laughed. “Alright, let’s get the champagne. Do we need an opener?”

“Most likely not.” Sherlock retrieved the bottle to inspect it. “No, it’s got its own device.”

Sherlock ripped away the outer foil, and twisted the wire cage around the cork to ease it open. It popped with a loud bang, a cloud of mist and a splash of bubbles escaping to spill over his hand.

“Ooops.” Sherlock brought his palm up, licking the side clean.

John felt his cock twitch just watching him.

“Glasses?”

“Oh, right.” John jumped to retrieve them.

Sherlock poured for each of them, setting the bottle by the bath when he’d finished.

“Cheers!” John moved to touch the rim of his glass to Sherlock’s.

“What are we drinking to?” he asked.

“How about us?” John grinned.

“Fair enough.” Sherlock tipped his head back to take a sip, and John almost forgot to breath, watching the long column of his throat work.

John took a quick swallow of sparkling wine, setting his glass to the floor to lean in and turn off the taps before the water and bubbles got too high.

“Shall we get a bit more comfortable?”  John smiled.

Sherlock nodded, watching intently as John reached up to tug the jumper up and over his head, leaving him in just his pants. John had spent any number of times changing before his football mates. Public nudity wasn’t something that bothered him much, but this felt different, intense, as Sherlock’s clear blue eyes bore into him. John smiled, and hooked his thumbs under the waistband of his briefs, making a show of pulling slightly at it.

“Yes?” He raised an eyebrow Sherlock’s direction.

“Yes,” Sherlock breathed.

Obediently, John pulled the grey pants down and off, kicking them across the floor. His cock was already starting to rise. Just the feel of Sherlock’s gaze on his skin was enough.

“Come here.” John crooked a finger.

Sherlock stumbled forward as if in a daze. John reached up to the buttons at his creamy white throat, sliding the disks free from their places, one after the other. Sherlock closed his eyes, reaching out to place a hand on John’s bare hip, steadying himself.

“Here.” John took the glass from his other hand, and set it to the floor beside his own.

He stood, reaching up to slide the shirt off Sherlock’s lovely, broad shoulders, off his arms and down to the floor.

“Beautiful.” John leaned in to trail kisses across his chest. 

Sherlock shuddered slightly as John reached to unfasten his trousers.

“Is it so different?” Sherlock asked.

“What, Love?” John’s thoughts felt sluggish and slow, moving in a swirl like thick, sweet honey.

“Does it feel different to be with a man? You’ve only had girlfriends until now.”

“I’ve been with a man before.” John leaned in to press his check to Sherlock’s chest. “It wasn’t anything . . . formal. It was quick. His name was Andrew.”

“He was on your football team in sixth form,” Sherlock popped out as a statement, not a question.

“That’s right.” John chuckled softly, leaning back to catch Sherlock’s eye. “I love how you do that. Mind reader.”

“Hardly. I simply observe.” Sherlock shrugged.

“Well, it’s bloody brilliant.” John grinned. “But enough. It’s just you and me now. Would you like to join me in the bath?”

Sherlock bit his lip and nodded. He looked so young, so unsure, it nearly broke John’s heart.

“Okay.”

John patted Sherlock’s side reassuringly as he dropped to his knees to play valet. Sherlock hadn’t even taken off his shoes, and John carefully removed each one, then his socks before rising to help him strip out of this trousers and briefs. John let his fingers trail along the smooth alabaster skin and fine hairs of Sherlock’s body until he was fully nude, his sweet cock stirring from the dark thatch between his legs.

“Come on.” John climbed into the bath, sinking down into the warm water, and held out his arms for Sherlock to join him.

Gracefully, Sherlock stepped over the rim, and John helped him to position himself between his outstretched legs, leaning back against his chest.

“Mmm, can you reach the champagne, Sweet?” John nibbled at his ear.

Thankfully, Sherlock’s long arms were able to reach over and snag the glasses. He passed one to John before grabbing his own to lean back again. They settled into the fragrant bubbles.

“Mmmm, this is nice,” Sherlock murmured. “Thank you for suggesting it.”

“I’m full of good ideas.” John smiled, wrapping an arm around Sherlock’s chest.

They lay together, sipping wine, letting the heat and fragrant bubbles uncoil any tension from their muscles, the upheavals of the morning slipping far away.

“It’s not a bad vintage,” Sherlock mused dreamily. “I mean I’ve had better, but this is quite passable.”

John chuckled, the movement of his chest bouncing Sherlock slightly. “Hey, come here. Turn around.”

Sherlock twisted like an otter, sliding himself over to better face John, smiling shyly up at him. His curls had softened to hang heavy around his face, his eyes open and luminous. John pressed a kiss to his forehead before he drained his glass, taking a full mouthful of the bubbly wine and moved down to kiss Sherlock’s mouth. He opened his lips to pass the liquid to his lover, chasing it with his tongue after he swallowed, licking the taste in Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock groaned, deep and rumbly against him. It was awkward snogging in the bath, limbs pressed against the porcelain sides, Sherlock’s weight against his belly, and most of him down under the water where John couldn’t reach.

“Bed,” John muttered when they resurfaced for air.

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed.

They managed to place the glasses back to the floor, open the drain and clamber out of the slippery tub without hurting themselves. Warm, fluffy white towels waited on a nearby heated bar, and John grabbed one to wrap around Sherlock before pulling one down for himself. The hair on Sherlock’s body had turned darker with the water, such a contrast with the paleness of his skin. John had to marvel as he watched him run the towel over his limbs.

Sherlock flushed when he caught John staring.

“My legs are too long. Too thin.”

“God, no, Sweetheart. Don’t speak rubbish. You’re perfect. Perfectly perfect.” John gathered him in.

They let the towels drop, standing nude to twine together, kissing deeply, arms sliding down to stroke and grip. John felt dizzy, so quickly did the blood pool between his legs to raise his cock. He could feel Sherlock’s growing erection in answer, pressing insistently against his belly.

“John, I’m going to fall over if we don’t sit down.”

“Christ, yes. Come on.”

John grabbed a bottle of bath oil off the shelf on their way out. With a grin, he led Sherlock by the hand back to the big, lovely four-poster bed in the other room. It was natural to crawl in, stretch, and roll together in the tangled sheets.

“God, you beautiful thing.” John laughed, wrapping his arms around him.

“You too, John. You’re gorgeous. Perfect. Everything.” Sherlock smiled softly, lifting a hand to stroke his check.

“Sherlock, am I your first?” John asked. He felt ashamed that he hadn’t already asked him this question. It had fallen somewhere on the long list of things they hadn’t been discussing.

“First boyfriend or first lover?”

“Either?” John asked, propping up on an elbow to keep his face in focus.

“There was someone at Eton,” Sherlock admitted slowly. “I thought we were . . . something. I helped him do his maths homework, write some papers, and when we were alone, we’d touch, kiss a bit. Whenever we were in public though, he’d act so differently.”

“Oh, Sweetheart. He sounds like an utter wanker.” John reached out to spread his hand over Sherlock’s heart.

“He was.” Sherlock placed his own palm over John’s hand, keeping it in place. “Before graduation, I asked if we could keep in touch, and he laughed at me in front of his mates. Said I was good to write his papers, but he didn’t actually want to be friends with a freak like me.”

“Bastard. What’s his name. I’ll kill him. Where does he live?” John couldn’t help the anger that blazed over him.

“Sebastian, and he’s hardly worth it,” Sherlock said quietly.

“No, you’re right. He’s not worth thinking about for another instant. Here I am with you in this big bed.” John turned his hand over to lace his fingers with Sherlock’s. “Why are we talking about whatshisname?”

“No idea.” Sherlock smiled softly.

“God, come here, you.”

John scooped Sherlock against him until their legs were tangled up, and their torsos pressed tightly. Half hard cocks slid against each other, making both of them gasp. They kissed softly, languidly, the heat building gradually. Sherlock smelled fantastic like the bath gel, but of himself too, and John moved to lick up the side of his neck, fingers tangled in his curls.

“Unnngg,” Sherlock groaned.

“Beautiful,” John murmured, mouthing and nipping along his jaw and under his ear.

Sherlock arched under him as John’s hand slid between them and found his cock.

“What shall we do about this, hmmm? Does it hurt?” John moved back so he could squeeze his hot shaft gently. “I might need to recommend a course of treatment to make it all better.”

“Yes, Dr. Watson, I think it needs extensive treatment,” Sherlock purred, a cheeky smile pulling at the side of his lips. “Loads of care.”

John found the bottle of oil he’d dropped to the mattress and coated his palm with it. The smell of almonds and spring flowers floated into the room. He slid his hand over the length of Sherlock’s erection, slicking him up before making a fist to pump over him.

“Does this seem to be making it better, do you think?” John enjoyed the sight of Sherlock’s swollen glans gliding through his fist.

“Results inconclusive,” Sherlock gritted out. “Must continue treatment . . . to  . . . confirm . . . oh God.”

“Yes, Honey?” John smiled as he sped up the rhythm.

Sherlock responded with a string of nonsensical, guttural utterances, his back and face tensing as the energy coiled within him.

“Yes come on, come for me, Baby.”

It was a glorious thing to watch, Sherlock falling apart, his face gone blissfully slack, as the warmth spurted between them.

“Oh, John.” His eyes were a kaleidoscope of colour when his lids finally drew back open.

“God, you’re lovely.” John smoothed back the hair stuck to his forehead with his clean hand.

“Give me the oil.” Sherlock looked determined.

“Okay.” John chuckled, his own bobbing erection temporarily forgotten in the joy of watching Sherlock orgasm.

He wiped his hand clean on the bottom sheet, and passed Sherlock the oil. Sherlock pressed John insistently onto his back, crawling over him, his long legs caging John in beautifully. The look in his eye was positively devilish as he uncapped the bottle to drizzle oil across John’s chest.

“Ooh, chilly.”

“I’ll warm it up,” Sherlock leered.

True to his word, Sherlock splayed his palms over John’s chest, dragging his hands through the oil, smearing it over John’s skin. His clever fingers painted circles over John’s nipples, zeroing in to pluck at the upright buds.

John hissed through his teeth.

“You’re sensitive here. I bet those _girlfriends_ never paid them enough attention, did they?”

“Noooo,” John groaned as Sherlock grazed him with his fingernails.

Sherlock continued his ministrations, stroking and rubbing down his torso until he reached John’s penis, heavy and straining against his belly. When Sherlock’s large hand wrapped around him, John nearly arched off the bed.

“Mmmm, beautiful man, my man,” Sherlock crooned in his ear, his fingers doing wicked things over John’s cock.

John closed his eyes, shaking as the waves of joy built higher and higher. Nothing existed but Sherlock’s hand and the good feelings spiraling over him. John gasped as he exploded, writhing as exquisite pleasure burned his thoughts to ash. _Jesus Fucking Christ._ When he came back to himself, Sherlock was holding him, long fingers caressing over his back.

“God. I think I saw stars,” John croaked. He was dimly aware that he might have been yelling when he shook to pieces moments earlier.

“Oh, good. Mission accomplished,” Sherlock rumbled by his ear.

“You’re a menace.” John smiled. “God, I love you. Oh, I mean . . .” John panicked for a moment. No one said that the first time they had sober, awake sex, what was he thinking . .

Sherlock pulled back to regard him seriously, searching his face. “John, it’s okay. I love you too.”

“Ah, well, glad we’ve got that sorted.” John smiled soppily as relief poured over him.

“Quite.” Sherlock nodded, affecting a very posh look.

It was so silly, such regal bearing while his hair looked like a frizzy mess, his cheeks reddened from rubbing against John’s bristled face.

“Give us a kiss, Posh Boy,” John crooned, pulling him back into his arms.

Sherlock complied readily, laughing as John rolled them across the bed to land on top. They kissed, long and hard, nearly devouring each other, melting into the ruined bedding.

“Roll onto your belly, and I’ll give you a proper massage,” John said, giving his arse a playful slap.

“Ooh, yes.” Sherlock wriggled onto his front

John slung a leg up to settle over his thighs. It have him a fantastic view of that long back and gorgeous arse. He found where the bottle of oil had fallen, and uncapped it, pouring oil into his hands. Warming them together briefly, he slid them over Sherlock’s shoulders, down, down along the dip in his spine.

“Mmmm,” Sherlock groaned happily under him.

John moved his hands over Sherlock’s lovely skin, admiring the odd freckle or mole. He wanted to memorize them all. He ran his hands over his trapezius and deltoid muscles, squeezing as he went, marveling at how beautifully put together Sherlock was, all long, lean sinew and ropy muscle.

“You like calling me that, don’t you?” Sherlock slurred beneath him.

“What?” John asked momentarily confused, broken from his reverie of hands, and oil, and skin.

“Posh Boy,” Sherlock exhaled.

“I guess I do.” John laughed. “Do you mind?”

“It’s a bit naff, but I like your tone of voice when you say it.”

“Oh, good.” John leaned in to brush his lips against Sherlock’s ear. “Posh boy.” He dropped his voice as low as it would go.

“Yes. That.” Sherlock wriggled again.

“Are you ready for another go, already?” John purred, reaching down to squeeze at the side of his rump.

“Finish rubbing my back and we’ll see.” John could hear the smile in Sherlock’s voice.

“Your wish is my command,” John said sitting back to continue the massage, thumbs digging in under his shoulder blades.

“Aaaah,” Sherlock sighed contentedly, sinking deeper into the mattress.

John had to smile. God, he was a lucky bastard. Top of the heap, really.

 

~@~


	14. Fourteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, folks, a story begun as a Christmas gift has finally been finished just after Easter. Hope people enjoy the wrap up, and many thanks to all who've kept me company along the way. It was a pleasure to tell the tale of these two idiots at uni and their great big bed. Kisses!!!

~@~

John dozed with his head on Sherlock’s shoulder, letting the motion of the train soothe him. They really hadn’t slept much the night before, and John needed the kip. Sherlock had sprung for first class tickets with their wider, comfier seats, and John took full advantage, stretching out.

It had been mad getting out of the hotel room in time for the train, reluctantly pulling on clothes, John throwing their clothes helter-skelter into bags as Sherlock called the front desk to request a cab to the station.  They had bid the room a heartfelt, but hasty good-bye with a last snog at the door before rushing off.

When John blinked awake some time later, Sherlock was still reading something on his phone.

“Good morning.” Sherlock smiled down indulgently.

“Afternoon, surely.” John rubbed at grit in his eye as he looked about. “Where are we?”

“Close to London. We’ll be changing trains soon.”

“Ah. I’d best wake up properly, then.”

John sat up and checked his phone plugged in beside him. He’d forgotten to charge it at the hotel and it had run down to almost nothing by the time they’d checked out. The texts pinged in fast and furious when he clicked the window open.

“Oh God.”

“Problem?” Sherlock glanced over.

“I’ve only got thirty-seven texts.” John said.

He quickly thumbed through the messages reminding him about a project due next week, something from Harry, and notices from Coach about an extra practice next week. It seems he’d missed a footie get-together on Sunday. The bulk of the remaining messages came from Molly, Mike, Bill, and Irene. Mike and Bill both seemed to think that Sherlock had kidnapped him and stashed the body somewhere as their texts grew more insistent. Molly asked less and less politely for updates, but Irene’s simply grew progressively naughtier.

_Did you two do it doggie style yet? - Irene_

John barked out a laugh.

When Sherlock raised an eyebrow, John showed him the screen.

“Rude.” Sherlock shifted in his chair.

“Yeah, Irene is the worst of the lot, but everyone’s asking for updates,” John said. “I need to tell them something.”

“Alright.”

“It’s okay if I tell them we’re together now?” John raised an eyebrow.

“It’s up to you, John,” Sherlock said a bit coolly, eyes locked on his screen.

“Hey.” John laid a hand to his leg, feeling the rasp of the cloth. “Sweetheart, look at me.”

John felt a chill run down his spine. He suddenly wanted to turn around and head right back to the hotel, back to the big, soft bed where they’d been close as skin pressed to skin for hours. Sherlock set the phone down to glance at him. He held his face almost carefully blank.

“It’s up to both of us. It’s okay to be a bit private if we want, but if I had my druthers, I’d be shouting it from the rooftops,” John said. “I’m damned chuffed you’ve agreed to be my boyfriend.”

“Yes, me too.” Sherlock’s face softened as he reached to take John’s hand. “Tell them all by text then. It will save time having to repeat it in person.” 

“My thoughts exactly.” John grinned and set about replying to his friends, giving a quick, edited account of the weekend.

He received several congratulations in a row, and one cryptic statement from Mike.

_Wooo. You two are in for a surprise then!_

When John texted back a stream of question marks, he got nothing in reply.

An announcement overhead alerted them that they’d be stopping at Kings Cross Station in a matter of minutes. John forgot the text in the hustle and bustle of gathering their things and departing to find their next train. It was nearly dinner by the time a final taxi dropped them at the car park closest to their dorm.

“God, I’m exhausted,” John groaned as they shouldered their bags and made their way to the entrance, avoiding two blokes carrying a bookcase between them. “I’ll have so much work to make up too.”

“It has been tiring,” Sherlock agreed, looking a bit worn himself, his curls smushed flat on one side.

The usual collection of noise greeted them as they reached their floor, someone yelling at the end of the hall, and the random bursts of music from various rooms. John wasn’t expecting the wave of sentiment that washed over him as Sherlock dug out his key and unlocked to door to their room. It was just a dorm room, but John felt an overwhelming relief at being _home_ again. He was looking forward to sacking out on their bed, maybe having a quick cuddle before heading off to dinner.

“Oh . . . no.” Sherlock froze just inside the entrance.

“Yeah, what?” John pushed in past him, swept his eyes over the room, and stopped as well.

Their big, double bed had disappeared and in its place two narrow, twin beds now sat, pushed up against the opposite walls of the room. One held Sherlock’s bedding neatly folded and stacked on the mattress.

“Bloody hell,” John swore.

“How did this happen? I don’t understand?” Sherlock waved a hand helplessly.

“I forgot.”  John dropped his bag to the floor. “I called res services, just before the weekend.”

“You did?” Sherlock looked hurt.

“Yeah, I was pretty sure you were tired of sharing the bed with me, and I was tired of forcing myself on you.”  

“I wasn’t tired of it.” Sherlock moved to his desk chair, removing his coat, and dropping his bag before sitting. “I was the one who cancelled the order for the replacement in the first place.”

“You did?” John whirled to face him.

“I hacked into the system and marked the task as closed.” 

“What?” John wanted to laugh. “How did you manage that?”

“It wasn’t hard.” Sherlock looked a bit sheepish. “The secretary in the office had the password to the system written on a post-it note on the side of her desk.”

“Oh, you are a menace.” John chucked then. “I’m sorry I called. I guess we got our wires crossed.”

“God, all that time we wasted.” Sherlock raked a hand through his curls, looking at the two beds mournfully. “Time that I wasted . . . being an idiot.”

“No, don’t worry about it. I guess we just weren’t ready yet.” John flung his own jacket to the back of his chair, and moved to the bed on his side of the room. He tested the firmness of the mattress with his hand before sitting on it, bouncing a bit. “Eh, I guess it’s not too bad.”

“It’s horrible.” Sherlock looked ready to cry.

“Hey, hey.” John rose, crossing to Sherlock, insinuating himself between those long legs. He drew Sherlock into a hug, stroking a hand over his shoulders. Maybe we can push them together or something?”

“Okay.” Sherlock’s voice came muffled against John’s jumper.

“It’s not the end of the world.” John smiled.

Sherlock snuffled in at John’s belly, burrowing in. He leaned away just enough to lift John’s shirt, and zeroed back in, this time his lips pressing kisses against John’s bare skin.

“Oooh.” John shivered.

“Mmmm,” Sherlock agreed.

Sherlock’s hand slid up to cup John’s buttocks, pulling him closer as his kisses grew wetter, his tongue appearing to lick small stripes over John’s stomach. John could feel his cock getting interested in the situation, heat pooling low as he began to swell.

“Sweetheart.” John slid a hand into Sherlock’s curls, cradling the back of his head.

A loud knock on the door startled them.

“Go away,” Sherlock turned his head to call out.

“I better see who it is.” John squeezed his shoulder before extricating himself to go to answer it. “It’s probably Mike.”

John adjusted himself slightly before opening the door. Mike was indeed standing in the hallway, smiling, holding a notebook.

“Oh good, you’re back!”

“Yeah, just got in,” John said, rubbing a hand back through his hair. “Bit knackered to be honest.”

“Hot weekend, eh?” Mike winked.

“Yeah, well, I guess you could say that.” John chuckled nervously.

“So, I guess you noticed the bed situation?” Mike pushed his way into the room. “Oh, hi, Sherlock.”

“Mike.” Sherlock nodded coolly from where he sat.

“Blokes came Friday afternoon to bring these in.” Mike waved toward the new twin beds, chuckling. “Bad timing, huh? Here you were sharing and not going out all this time. It’s kind of funny really.”

“Funny?” Sherlock looked offended.

“Well, not really ‘ha ha’ funny,” John said glumly.

“Well, no, I guess not.” Mike’s good humor sagged a bit as he looked at their faces. “Hey, I’ve got the orgo notes from Friday if you’re interested in looking them over.” Mike held up the notebook in his hand.

“Oh, yeah, sure.” John reached for it.

“I’m sure that’s hardly necessary. I can explain anything that John missed most likely better than that asinine teacher,”  Sherlock huffed.

“Yeah, well, it won’t hurt me just to see what the class went over Friday.” John accepted the notebook from Mike. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” Mike said. “So you guys coming to dinner? Everyone’s meeting at the usual spot.”

“Oh, sure, I’m starving,” John said, casting a quick glance back at Sherlock.

Sherlock simply shrugged. _I’m not hungry, but it’s fine._

John gave him a pointed look in return. _Yeah, but you can eat something._

Sherlock raised his eyebrows dramatically. _Fine, if I must._

John smiled. _Good._

“Well, I need to get back to an essay due tomorrow.”  Mike gestured somewhere toward his room. “See you in about an hour?”

“Yeah, thanks, man.” John walked him to the door. “See ya later.”

“Bye guys.”

John stood and surveyed the beds once Mike had left. Looking at them wasn’t changing the fact that they now had two twin beds in the room. John sighed.

“I guess we should make the beds.”

“If we must.” Sherlock rose reluctantly.

John rummaged through his wardrobe and pulled out the faded tan-coloured sheets, and old wool blanket he hadn’t needed to use yet that term. He glanced over to see that Sherlock had moved the folded duvet and old sheets from his bed to unfold a set of pearly grey twin sheets.

“How did you get queen-sized bedding in the first place?” John squinted at him.

“I went into town and bought it when I saw the bed in the room.” Sherlock bent to catch the edges of the fitted sheet over his mattress.

“It didn’t occur to you it was a mistake and would be moved soon?” John reached to stretch his own sheet over his bed.

“I figured I might as well be comfortable while I had the bigger mattress.” Sherlock shrugged. “Besides I thought it would chase you away faster if we only had the one bed.”

“Well, that didn’t work out as planned.” John chuckled.

“Thank God for that.” Sherlock rose from tucking the last corner. “After awhile, I realized I didn’t sleep well if you weren’t in the bed with me.”

“Aw, Sweetheart.”

John abandoned his sheet that kept popping off to pull Sherlock in for a kiss. It went on long enough for John to think lying down might be a good idea. He glanced at his bed still missing its sheet.

“Here, I’ll help,” Sherlock said, and together they managed to wrestle the covering across John’s mattress.

“Alright, let’s try putting the beds together,” John said straightening up.

They each pushed one of the twins toward the center of the room until they met, side by side. Sadly, the edges of the frames meant the mattresses didn’t exactly touch.

“Oh, bugger,” John said. “Perhaps, we could simply move the mattresses closer?”

“We can try,” Sherlock agreed, “but it won’t be inherently stable.”

“Oh ye of little faith,” John said as they both shoved the mattresses until they touched.

“I’m not sure it will support . . .”

“See, it’ll be fii . . .” John leapt onto the beds, rolling into the middle.

The mattresses slid apart as he fell half into the crevasse formed.

“Shit.”

Sherlock burst into laughter, the deep chuckles filling the room.

“Ha ha ha,” John grumbled, crawling back up.

“Perhaps if we brace it against a wall?” Sherlock suggested once he had gotten himself under control.

“Yeah, okay, let’s try that.”

Together they got both of the beds shoved against the wall on Sherlock’s side, and then slid John’s dresser against the other side to wedge it in. They kicked off shoes, and crawled onto the bed, settling on each side before gingerly rolling to meet in the middle. John slid his hand over Sherlock’s hip. The mattresses didn’t move, but they dipped uncomfortably at the center line.

“Oh God,” John groaned.

“Looks like the best we can do,” Sherlock said, his blue eyes as big as the world at such close range.

“Can I come visit you on your side?” John asked.

“Yes, please.”

Sherlock rolled back and John clambered eagerly on top of him.

“Hello,” Sherlock said.

“Hi there,” John said. “Come here often?”

“Noooo, but I’d like to.” Sherlock smirked.

“Mmm, I feel like we have on altogether too many clothes for this particular activity.”

“I would have to agree.” Sherlock pulled John down into a hot, open-mouthed kiss that nearly melted his bones.

Scrabbling fingers managed to pop open buttons, wrench clothing away, and toss things haphazardly toward the floor. John felt as though it had been an eternity since he’d been pressed skin to skin with this beautiful man though really they’d been together at the hotel just that morning. It seemed ages ago.

“Oh, Baby, you feel perfect,” John moaned, when he could finally run his hands over his gorgeous boyfriend, trying to touch him everywhere at once.

“Yes,” Sherlock said, pulling him in to a tight embrace, his lips seeking out the soft skin under John’s jaw.

It wasn’t anything coordinated or elaborate, just heat and longing, and licked palms pumping over throbbing need. Sherlock came first, exploding over John’s fist.

“God, Baby, yeesssss,” John crooned, working him through the aftershocks.

When he could open his eyes, Sherlock scooped his hand through the ejaculate that had spilled over his belly and used it to coat John’s erection. He slid his hand slowly over his length.

 “Mmmm, Joooohn,” Sherlock growled in his ear. “I love seeing you like this. Falling apart. Just for me.”

“Uunngghh,” John groaned from his toes upward.

“Come for me, Lover,” Sherlock whispered at John’s ear, and he did, spectacularly so.

“God,” John gasped after, pulling Sherlock into his arms, mindless of the mess, burying his face into a riot of curls. “God.”

“Mmmm.” Sherlock pressed his face into John’s chest. John could feel the rumble of his hum across his skin.

“Let’s never move again,” John said. “We’ll just stay here forever.”

John’s stomach punctuated his sentence with a loud growl.

“I think we’ll need to move for dinner fairly soon if your digestive tract is any indication.” Sherlock laughed, propping himself up on an elbow.

“Damnit. Sex makes me hungry.” John sighed.

“I’m actually feeling a bit peckish myself.” Sherlock sounded surprised.

“Git. I wore you out, huh?” John grabbed his arse appreciatively.

“You definitely helped with some loss of fluids.” Sherlock smirked.

“Ooh, I love it when you talk sexy,” John said, tugging Sherlock back into long, lingering kisses.

It was sometime later before they finally untangled and sat upright.

“Eww, we got your sheet all manky. Looks like laundry tonight.” John pushed away from the wet spots.

“I have a spare set.” Sherlock shrugged.

“It’s okay, I’m out of clean pants. I really need to do a load anyway.”

“Alright, thanks.”

After quick showers, they hurried to dress and make it down to the cafeteria before dinner was over. The usual crew was already there at the usual table when they arrived with their trays.

“Hey guys!” John felt inexplicably nervous standing there with Sherlock at his side. They both had the dopiest grins across their faces.

“The prodigal sons return!” Bill called out.

“Don’t you two look proud of yourselves?” Irene quipped as she nudged Gwen. They exchanged smug smiles.

Sherlock simply rolled his eyes, as John led them to the empty seats the others had left for them.

“So, how was the wedding?” Molly leaned in.

“It was really good, we had fun.” John said, picking up his fork.

“John made it bearable.” Sherlock lifted a shoulder.

“It looks like you had fun!” Mike chuckled. “Never seen you two so happy.”

“Yeah, so Sherlock and I are together now,” John said, scooping up a bite of mash, not really meeting anyone’s eye.

 “Oh, honey, you’ve been together for weeks.” Irene reached out to pat John’s arm. “You just didn’t realize it yet.”

John flushed as laughter rippled around the table. It was goodnatured though. He met Sherlock’s gaze and they shared a smile as his boyfriend reached up to take his hand, sliding their fingers together.

“Yeah, congrats you two.” Molly smiled.

“Thanks,” John said.

“It’s a shame about the beds though,” Mike said.

John groaned as Mike rehashed the whole saga of the beds with the group.

“You two are idiots,” Irene pronounced.

“Yeah, well, we’ll just have to make the best of the new beds.” John shrugged.

“We can be creative,” Sherlock added.

“Okay, more than I wanted to know.” Bill shook his head.

Talk turned to some dungeons and dragons podcast everyone was following. John only listened with half an ear as he and Sherlock kept sharing smiles, fingers still entwined as Sherlock stroked his thumb over the back of John’s hand. Just that simple touch was enough to send a ripple of heat through him.

After they’d bid everyone good-bye and made it back to their room, John gathered up his laundry and several things of Sherlock’s for washing. He expected Sherlock to faff off to the labs or something, but was pleasantly surprised when he tagged along to the laundry room in the basement instead. Things were a bit crowded on Sunday night, but John found an empty washing machine to dump their things into. He cursed when he stuck his laundry card in the slot and found it empty of funds.

“Here use mine.” Sherlock fished a card out of his wallet.

“Oh, thanks, Love.”

They found an empty sofa in the nearby lounge as someone left, and settled in to wait, John with a book he needed to finish for class, and Sherlock reading something on his laptop. They didn’t speak much, but it was surprisingly nice just sharing company. The time flew by much quicker than it usually did. Sherlock even helped fold the laundry when it came out of the dryer, telling John some science jokes he’d just read that had them doubling over with laughter even though the jokes were terrible.

“God, these stupid beds.” John growled when they returned to their room.

“We’ll just have to make do.” Sherlock sighed.

They pulled Sherlock’s clean sheet onto his mattress, and went about their usual bedtime routine. This time though, John was waiting in bed naked when Sherlock got back from the bathroom.  They ended up soiling John’s sheets this time, and quickly swapped it out for one of Sherlock’s extras.

“I think we need to get more sheets, or more towels,” John said as they pulled on shirts and pants for sleeping.

“Agreed. And some lube.” Sherlock smiled shyly.” I’ll go to the shops tomorrow. I’ve got some free time in the afternoon.”

“Oh, wait a day, and I can go with you.” John yawned widely.

“Alright.”

They cuddled up together on Sherlock’s side, but eventually John needed to roll over to get comfortable and he fell into the dip. With a huff he moved back over onto his own mattress.

“Sorry, John,” Sherlock mumbled in the dark.

“Yeah, it’s okay, Love. I’m not far.” John reached out and caught Sherlock’s out-flung fingers, and they held hands over the center seam as they drifted off to sleep.

 

~@~

 

John threw himself into a busy week. He was thrilled when Sherlock came with him to the first few orgo classes, but of course Sherlock had a breaking point after he got into a blistering row arguing a point with the professor, and he skipped class the next meeting time. John didn’t blame him. The whole class seemed to breathe easier with Sherlock’s absence.

“What’s it like going out with Sherlock?” Molly asked as they walked to their next class together.

“It’s brilliant.” John grinned. “I mean Sherlock’s a bit of an arse, yeah, but he’s really funny, and so smart. God the things he says . . . and of course the sex is fantastic. Oh, sorry, if that was TMI.”

“No, no, that’s great. I’m so happy for you both,” Molly said quickly.

“Yeah, thanks, things are going pretty good.”

“So, no trouble from anyone for being in a same-sex relationship?”

“Not too much. I mean we’ve gotten a few second glances, and one wanker whispered ‘Poofters’ at us as we were coming back from dinner one night holding hands. I thought Sherlock was going to beat him into the ground. I literally had to hold him back. Scared the hell out of the git.” John chuckled. “But beside that, naw, no worries.”

“That’s good. I’m glad to hear that.”

They slowed, and moved to the side to avoid a group of women talking in the middle of the pavement. Molly’s eyes flickered over them as they walked past.

“The thing is . . . I think I might be like you. Bisexual.” Molly flushed a bit. “I think I like girls too.”

“Wow, Mols, that’s great. I mean that’s so good you’re getting to know yourself better.”

“Yeah, the thing is though, I don’t know how girls meet each other, you know? I mean we’re always complimenting each other and being friendly. How do you know when it means something  . . . more?”

“Oh, wow, I don’t know.”

“How did you and Sherlock realize you were more than friends?”

“Well, that was a bit of special circumstance. Hard to miss it when you’re sleeping in the same bed and you keep waking up on top of each other.” John chuckled.

“Yeah, I don’t suppose that will work for me.” Molly smiled.

“Hey, Irene’s always hosting those Gay Student Alliance Meet and Greet things. Why don’t you go to one of those?”

“I dunno.” Molly tucked a bit of hair behind her ear. “I feel a bit nervous about jumping in like that.”

“No. Look, Sherlock and I will come and be your wingmen. Sherlock has a real knack for setting people up. He can analyze everyone like you wouldn’t believe, see if anyone’s giving you the side-eye.”

“Oh, really?” Molly brightened.

“Yeah, of course. I’ll just text Irene and ask her when the next get-together’s planned.”

“Wow, thanks, John.”

“No worries.”

“Well, this is me.” Molly nodded toward the entrance to her classroom building.

“Yeah, sure talk to you later!” John waved as he hurried on to his own class, shaking his head. It seemed like everyone had things to announce lately.

 

~@~

 

“Sherlock, will you go to dinner with me tomorrow night?” John asked the naked man plastered along his front.

“What?” Sherlock lifted his head, a confused wrinkle between his brows as he squinted down at John. “Don’t we go to dinner together every night?”

“Well, yeah, at the cafeteria, but I wanted to take you out.” John slipped a hand under the sheet to smooth a hand down his boyfriend’s bare flank, patting fondly.

“What on a date?” Sherlock wrinkled his nose further.

“Yes, on a date.”

John felt somewhat offended when Sherlock snorted a laugh.

“What?”

“It’s just . . . don’t people normally go on dates before they get in bed together?” He gestured to the two of them stripped to the skin, entwined on John’s side of the bed equation.

“Well, yeah, we seem to have done everything backwards, but I’d really like to. Take you out.”

“Where did you have mind?”

“I made reservations at an Italian place in town, Angelo’s? People said it was really good.”

“Ah, and not too expensive. Since you have limited funds, you wanted a restaurant that had an impressive ambience, but offered a number of lower-cost selections.”

“SHERLOCK.”

“John, if this is some guilty throwback to hetero-normative conventions, you don’t need to take me out simply because you’ve taken girlfriends to dinner in the past, nor do you need to make expensive purchases to prove that you’ll be a good provider if we chose to pair bond.”

“Look, fine. If you don’t want to go, just say so.”  John worked his way out from under Sherlock and rolled away onto his side. Everything felt suddenly cold and awful.

“John.” Sherlock reached out to touch his shoulder, one warm spot. “I’ve upset you.”

“Whatever gave you that idea,” John said flatly.

“I’m sorry.” Sherlock tucked himself in behind John, placing a hand on his hip “I don’t have the proper social filters. I don’t always say the right thing.”

“Uuugh. Sherlock, I know.” John slid over onto his back. He looked up at the pair of worried blue eyes hovering over him. “I just wanted to take you out somewhere nice so we could have some time alone, just us, talking. I thought it would be fun.”

“Yes, that.” Sherlock nodded earnestly. “Thank you.”

“You don’t mind? It won’t be too hetero-normative?”

“I’m sorry I said that. I didn’t mean it.”

“Okay, good.” John found his palm and smacked a kiss into the center of it.

Sherlock looked so contrite, John had to kiss his worried look away, and that led to other things that led to their neighbors banging on the wall and yelling at them to please keep it down. Since those neighbors often played ear-splitting music and bounced balls against the wall, they completely ignored them.

 

~@~

 

“Since we aren’t bound by hetero-normative rules, order whatever you like and I’ll pay.”

“Sherlock,” John huffed over his menu.

“I’m serious. It’s a simple fact that I have more money than you do. Get what you want. Next time we go for fish and chips, you can pay.”

“Alright, fine.” John decided to stop being silly and enjoy his night out with his gorgeous boyfriend.

The flicker of the candle on their table caught the red highlights in his dark curls, and danced over his bright slanted eyes and ivory skin. He looked positively elven in his dark purple button up, a sly smile tugging at his lips. John had worn his nicest chinos and the jumper that Sherlock had gifted him and he didn’t feel half as well-dressed.

“You want the calamari,” Sherlock said.

“How do you DO that?” John asked.

“You keep looking at that part of the menu. Order it.”

“Okay, okay. What else do I want?” John closed the menu on the table to smile at the bewitching man.

“Hmmmm.” Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin as he regarded John in a piercing gaze.

It felt electric, as if a current had just passed over John’s skin. He leaned into it, placing his forearms on top of the table.

“You normally go for something simple, spag bol, it’s comforting and familiar, something you ate often as a child, but you want to branch out tonight, try something a bit more adventurous. You’re partial to seafood, but you don’t normally order it due to the higher cost, but if someone else is paying, you’d consider it. I’d recommend the Linguine ai frutti di mare. Oh, and a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc.”

John burst out laughing.

“That sounds lovely. Alright what are having?”

“The goat cheese ravioli.”

“That sounds good too.” John smiled, propping his chin on his hand. “You have excellent taste.”

Sherlock visibly preened at the praise, and John vowed to compliment Sherlock more every day.

After bread and water had been deposited at their table, a waiter came around to take their orders, and John let Sherlock rattle off his selections. Once they had their wine poured, and thank God this wasn’t the sort of place that wanted them to taste it first, John lifted his drink.

“To new beginnings,” John said.

“And expanded horizons,” Sherlock said, touching his glass to John’s.

It gave off a lovely high-pitched chime. John drank a mouthful of the crisp, woodsy wine, watching Sherlock over the rim.  He reached over to take Sherlock’s hand across the table when the bell over the door jangled as a group sauntered in, a jumble of voices and laughter.  John glanced over and froze. _No, no, no._

“Hiya, Johnny!”

“Watson!”

“It’s our boy!”

“John! Alright?”

Four members of the football team walked in, all of them immediately noticing and waving at John.

_Of course they’d be here. It was chatting with the footie lads that gave him the idea of Angelo’s in the first place. Christ._

John sat back, nervously wiping his hand on his lap. The lads were being shown to a table, but of course the men darted over to speak to John first. It was Rory, Sadiq, Thomas, and a bloke didn’t know as well, Kevin.

“Johnny, hey come join us, we can push another table in!” Rory grinned, his face redder than usual as they crowded around. “You and your friend. Come on over.”

Sherlock looked like a cornered cat with his hackles gone up. John expected him to start hissing at any moment. John rose from his chair, accepting a slap on the back, and giving one in return.

“Hey good to see you lot!” John forced a smile. “Thanks for the invite, but we’ll have to pass. We were hoping for a bit of alone time.” John winked broadly at them.

“Oh, no John come on, we won’t bite!” Thomas grinned. “The more the merrier.”

“No really, lads. You lot are the best despite your ugly mugs, but I’m going to have to chose my date over you,” John said.

“Your date?” Kevin sputtered turning to sweep a rude glance over Sherlock. “I didn’t know you were gay!”

“John’s not gay, he’s bi, and what of it?” Sadiq stepped up.

“OH, God, sorry, John.” Rory looked instantly apologetic. “Yeah, we’ll shove off, no worries.”

“Sorry, you won’t see us again! Good luck!” Thomas called as they herded Kevin away, leaving John and Sherlock in relative peace.

“I am so sorry. They are such idiots.” John dropped his head into his hand.

“No, it’s alright.” Sherlock looked ruffled as he reached for his wine. “You didn’t tell them we were going out though.”

“I’m sorry, it didn’t really come up while we were running laps, Sherlock. They aren’t bad lads, but we really aren’t best mates or anything.”

“No, I understand.” Sherlock held himself stiffly as he took a sip.

“I’m not hiding you.” John did reach across the table to grasp Sherlock’s free hand then. “I suppose I wanted a protected space just for us. Before everything else rushes in, you know? I’m bloody proud of you, Love.”

“Yes, alright. I’m proud of you too.” Sherlock softened as he gazed into John’s eyes.

Thankfully the footballers kept to themselves the rest of the evening, and Sherlock and John were able to enjoy their meal quietly. John didn’t feel as relaxed as he had before though. He kept thinking about the gossip that was going to be passed around at the next practice.

“John, it doesn’t matter what they think, does it?” Sherlock nudged John’s foot with his under the table, a crease between his brows.

“No, of course not.” John sighed. “I guess I did want a bit of privacy . . . just for a bit.”

“I know somewhere we can be private together.” Sherlock waggled his eyebrows comically. “Why don’t you come back to mine, and I can show you my etchings?”

“You’re right. Christ what am I thinking. Let’s pay our check and get out of here.” John smiled, already undressing Sherlock in his mind’s eye. God, he was a lovely, long drink of water.

 

~@~

 

“I want you to come inside me,” John breathed, sweat dripping down the side of his face.

“You’re sure?” Sherlock whispered over his skin, his lips like velvet drawn across John’s throat.

“Yes, please, Sweetheart.”

They’d  been playing with fingering over the last few weeks, making liberal use of the several bottles of lube they’d picked up at the shops, but full penetration was a new thing.

“Okay. We’ll take it slow.”

John penis was thicker and he worried about hurting Sherlock when he topped. He told himself he wanted to see what it felt like first, but another side of him just wanted his stunning boyfriend to fuck him into the mattress. John willed himself to stay pliant as those long, beautiful fingers slid lubricant over his entrance, and nudged their way inside. John gasped at the burn, gradually relaxing as the sensation moved into something pleasurable. When Sherlock had applied a veritable ocean of lubricant, and John was melting under his ministrations, he begged again.

“Please, Honey, please. Fuck me.”

“Yes,” Sherlock murmured, sliding between his splayed thighs, his cock rosy and swollen as he navigated it carefully into place.

Sherlock nudged his way slowly inside, advancing by degrees as the sphincter stretched, allowing him entrance. John arched his back, groaning as Sherlock sank home.

“Oh, God. You’re . . .”

“I’m in you,” Sherlock breathed, his eyes nearly glowing in the dim light.

They waited until John felt ready, and then moved, sliding in tandem, quickly finding a rhythm that suited them both.

“OH GOD!” John cried, grabbing Sherlock’s back, barely aware that Sherlock was babbling something by his ear.

Sherlock reached between them to stroke John’s cock, and the rising tide of sensation from so many directions tipped him over into a wash of bliss.

“FUCK!” John lost all notion of his boundaries, the edges of his body simply melting away.

He was dimly aware of Sherlock stuttering out his own release as he came back down, the salty smell of brine, and cherry lube, and beautiful sweaty man wrapped around him.

“I love you,” John whispered, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. He pulled Sherlock to him as tightly as he could.

“I love you, too,” Sherlock gasped. “John, oh, John.” He peppered kisses across John’s face over and over.

They remained locked in each other’s arms until Sherlock softened and slipped out and they had to grab towels and clean up. They curled up together on one bed to sleep, squashed as close to the wall as they could to stay together, pulling Sherlock’s duvet over them.

“Good night, Love,” John murmured.

“Ni’ Jo’,” Sherlock sighed. “Don’ roll in th’ middle.”

“No, Sweet. I’ll try not to.” John smiled into a cloud of curls.

 

~@~

 

John stood on the field, licking his lips, watching like a hawk as the other team stormed down the pitch, looking for an in. This was it, the game to make or break them, send them to the finals, or drop them by the wayside. Coach Reynolds had called extra practices for the week leading up to his game, working them mercilessly. John had mourned the time lost with Sherlock, but he didn’t want to let the team down.

John leaped, but the ball moved past him. A striker on the other team tried to score, but their goalie, Kevin, deflected it. A cheer rose up from the home side. Thank God. They were tied. The next score would decide the game.

John had taken a bit of ribbing from the team after his date night with Sherlock, certainly Kevin had shared a few choice words, but it hadn’t been anything hateful.  Rory and Sadiq had even teased John on how attractive Sherlock had been. _Didn’t think you had it in you, Watson, little runt like you._

“Come on, Watson, get your head out of your arse!” Coach yelled from the sidelines.

John nodded, angry he’d let the ball go past, and doubled his efforts to stay on top of the game.

“We have this, man, we have this,” Rory crooned, jogging past.

Finally after a few failed attempts, they had the ball in play. Thomas, passed it to John, and he felt time stand still as he moved it between the shapes in his way, dodging, running, sound stretched and muddied around him as the way opened and he kicked the ball with all he had. It hung in the air for a moment before arcing toward the goal, shooting right past an outstretched hand into the net. John could hardly suck in a breath. He’d actually scored from midfield. The noise rushed in with a huge crash as the cries reached him.

“BLOODY HELL, MATE!” Someone slapped him on the back.

When time was called, they won, they’d actually won, 3 - 2. The team went wild, jumping up and down, yelling. Someone lifted a bucket of ice and threw it into the air.  John found himself clutched in a group of screaming lads when he turned and saw Sherlock on the sidelines, his face blazing bright.

John ran to him, leaping up until Sherlock caught him about the hips, holding him up, their mouths crashing together in a wild kiss. God, it was brilliant. Everything was pure crystalline joy.

“God, did you see that, did you see that goal?” John shook his head all the way back to the dorm when he’d finally been released.

“I saw it John.” Sherlock had his arm around his shoulders. “You were breathtaking, but I’ve always known that.”

“Aw, Sweetheart.” John tightened his arm around Sherlock’s waist.

“I have a present for you,” Sherlock smiled as they neared the front door of their hall.

“Yeah?  What is it?” John grinned up at him.

“Something big. But it’s a surprise, you’ll have to wait to see.”

“Is it one of my favorite things?” John sneaked a quick feel of the front of Sherlock’s trousers under his coat.

“John, don’t be crass.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You can have my penis whenever you ask. No this is something bigger.” 

“Ooh, now I am curious.” John felt like his blood was filled with fizzing bubbles. If Sherlock had told him he’d pulled the moon down from the sky for him, he wouldn’t have thought twice about it.

“Then come on.” Sherlock led him into the lobby around a boy and a girl kissing ardently against a wall.

“Scuse me,” John said as they skirted the oblivious couple, following Sherlock to the stairs.

“Here, close your eyes,” Sherlock said as he unlocked their door.

“Alright, you mad thing. Make sure I don’t trip on anything.”

“I’ve got you,” Sherlock said, guiding John by the shoulders into the room.

“Can I open my eyes?” John asked as the door swung closed behind them.

“Yes,” Sherlock’s deep baritone rolled by his ear.

John opened his eyes to a large queen-sized bed in the middle of the room once more.

“What?” He turned an open mouth Sherlock’s way.

“It’s ours, I ordered it. It took a few weeks to be delivered.”

“How?” John felt as though he’d lost the larger portion of his vocabulary.

“Mrs. Hudson helped out of course. She had the twin beds put into storage when the movers showed up.”

“This is ours?”

“Ours to keep.” Sherlock grinned.

“Fucking hell, come on.” John tugged his boyfriend toward the beckoning mattress. “I want to hold you on that great, big bed.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Sherlock said, allowing John to pull him onto its downy depths into his waiting arms.

 

~@~

 

John’s phone trilled him awake much too early for a Saturday morning. He reached over, grabbing at it from his jeans by the bed, angry that he hadn’t turned the sound off the night before. He didn’t catch the call before it went to voicemail. John squinted at the screen. It was just Harry. John muted the phone, and tossed it back to the floor.

Sherlock was a delicious lump in the bed next to him, his tousled curls just peeking out from the duvet. John slid in closer to the warmth radiating off of him. He smelled cozy and sleepy, and John burrowed in close, inhaling at the back of his neck.

“Mmmm, John.” Sherlock stretched languidly, turning over to slide into John's arms, acres of bare skin just waiting for John's touch.

“Good morning, Gorgeous.” John smiled.

Sherlock slid a leg between John’s thighs, and rocked upward.

“Yes, I do believe it is a good morning,” he drawled.

“Oh God, yes.” John shuddered as a spike of arousal shot right through him.

They enjoyed the sensation of simply rolling against each other for several long minutes, feeling their ardor build before John reached down to fondle Sherlock’s erection.

“Hey, where’s the . . .”

“The vanilla lube is on my desk.”

“Oh, yeah, good.” John chanced the chillier air of the room to dart out and grab the desired bottle.

He returned quickly, diving under the duvet to reach Sherlock.

“Now where was I?”

“I believe you were going to suck my cock,” Sherlock purred.

“Oh, was I? Cheeky thing!” John chuckled.

“Unless you want me to suck yours? Or something else?” Sherlock shot John a coy glance from half-dropped eyelids, looking like sex on a plate.

“Yeah, you’re mine this go. On your back please, sir.” John nudged his hip.

Sherlock sprawled obligingly across the bed as John crawled over him, pushing the covers back. He popped the lid of the bottle to coat his palm with the fragrant slick, letting it warm a moment before sliding his hand over Sherlock’s beautiful cock, rotating his wrist with several passes, coating him tip to root.

“Yesssss.”

Sherlock hissed appreciatively as he took his length into his mouth, applying pressure as he sucked back. It was pure joy to lick along the length of him, alternating swipes of his tongue with the pressure of his mouth. They didn’t absolutely need the lube for this, but it helped smooth things along, and John had found he was partial to the taste of the vanilla. When Sherlock began to writhe, and his breath quicken to harsh gasps, John stepped up his rhythm, holding the base he couldn’t easily reach as he bobbed his head in time to Sherlock’s noises. Sherlock’s cock swelled one last time before he fell apart, nearly sobbing his release. John felt pride as he swallowed the bitter fluid mixed with vanilla, mixed with the smell of Sherlock’s musk.

“Oh, God.” Sherlock flung an arm across his face, catching his breath. “You’re too good at that.”

“TOO good?” John smiled as he climbed back up. “Really?”

“Is that what I said? I meant you absolutely need to keep practicing.” Sherlock moved his arm to open one cerulean eye. “Lots of practice. At least twice day.”

“Oh, well, I’ll have to see what I can do,” John chuckled, moving in to capture his boyfriend’s lips in a kiss, pressing his erection against his hip.

Sherlock had just snaked an inquisitive hand down John’s side when a knock sounded at the door.

“Go away!” They both yelled in unison.

“Hey!” It was Mike’s voice, muffled, saying something more John didn’t catch.

He sighed, catching Sherlock’s gaze with a sad look.

“God, now what?” Sherlock whispered. “Can’t we have a lie in without the world falling apart?”

“I’ve no idea,” John sighed.

“Come back later!” John called louder toward the hallway.

Thankfully Mike gave up and left after another mumble or two.

“Wonder what all that was?” John looked toward the door, calculating if it was worth it to call Mike and ask.

“I’m sure you can lend Mike a pencil or share notes later in the day,” Sherlock teased, reaching his hand further to wrap it securely around John’s erection.

“Mike who?” John said, letting Sherlock pull him further under the duvet, melting under his touch.

With one thing and another, they ended up spending most of the day in bed, with only a few trips to the loo, and a box of energy bars that John had to see them through lunch. By evening, they were properly ravenous, and they actually rose to shower, dress, and head to the cafeteria for dinner.

Although they hadn’t planned to join them, they saw their friends at the usual spot across the room. John nudged Sherlock’s arm and tipped his head toward them. At Sherlock’s nod, John led them over to join the crew.

“Woo hoo, the celebrities surface!” Irene catcalled as they neared.

“Celebrities?” John frowned.

“You mean you don’t know?” Molly giggled.

“Know what?” Sherlock asked, sliding his tray onto the table at a free seat.

John took the open one across the table.

“I tried to tell them earlier.” Mike shook his head. “They weren’t available to chat.”

“What are you all nattering on about? Spit it out or leave us in peace,” Sherlock huffed.

“You’re all over Twitter,” Bill said.

“You’re trending,” Gwen added.

“Whaaat?” John cried, confused, looking about for answers.

Irene already had her phone open. She held it up for John to view. A picture of the game last night with the crowd cheering, and John with his legs wrapped around Sherlock's waist as they kissed ravenously front and center sat below the caption, “Cute uni boyfriends celebrate win.”

“Oh, God,” John groaned. "Someone took a picture."

“It went viral last night,” Irene said.

“Can I have your autograph?” Bill teased. “Now that you’re famous and all.”

“Ridiculous.” Sherlock frowned at his own phone. “Don’t people have better things to talk about?”

“Human interest. It’s nice to have some happy news for a change.” Molly shrugged.

“It’s good PR is what it is,” Irene snapped. “We need more positive queer presence. This is exactly what we need for a greater visibility to get more funds for the Gay Student Alliance.”

“Irene,” John sighed.

“I’ll need you two to give a talk one night, ‘visibility and coming out.’ We can put fliers all over campus with this photo.” Irene leaned in eagerly.

“Absolutely not,” Sherlock bristled.

“Yeah, maybe, let us think about it, okay?” John tried to placate the argument brewing.

Sherlock snorted, but consenting to eat his meal before saying anything to completely piss Irene off.  John glanced around the table at his friends, happy when the talk moved from their new-found fame to some romance movie coming out with gay leads.  Sherlock looked up from his pasta and smiled, something private just for the two of them. John reached out to take his hand

“Love you,” John mouthed silently.

“Love you, too,” Sherlock mouthed in reply.

Things weren’t perfect. John had two papers due on Monday, and an exam next week, and he was sure he would get a river a crap from the team at next practice over the naff photo, but yeah, he squeezed his boyfriend’s hand and decided things were rather good. John released Sherlock’s hand and scooped up a huge bite of creamed chicken.

“Ugh, Bill, pass the salt would you?” John nudged him.

“I dunno, aren’t you famous enough to have people to do that for you?”

“Yeah, I’ve got you lot.” John grinned. “Pass it over, ya ruddy bastard.”

Laughter rippled over the group, but the best sound was Sherlock’s chuckle across the table.

Sherlock winked at him, and John felt warmth sliding down his belly. He suddenly couldn’t wait to get back to their room again. He attacked his plate with gusto, happy to see that Sherlock had the exact same idea. It was obvious they hadn’t nearly spent enough time in their new bed at all.

 

~ THE END ~

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Cover] Roommates Are For Little People](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14988923) by [allsovacant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allsovacant/pseuds/allsovacant)




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